Stale M&M's: AU
by notmuchmoretosay
Summary: Alternate Universe - No Walkers [Carl x OMC] What if the Turn had never happened? What if we fast-forward Oliver's life to present day? Now, eighteen years old, moving schools in his last three months of mandatory education, Oliver gets to meet his family all over again. Credit to cover art goes to @lord-of-fandoes-and-other-things on Tumblr
1. Part 1: A Family

This is an Alternate Universe (AU) story of my original fanfiction. You can read this without reading it first, but just know that all characters and locations and quotes (bar my own) are of the Walking Dead's creation.

Rated for cussing, romantic themes, and sensitive subjects like infidelity, depression, eating disorders, self-abuse/harm, etc.

Enjoy x

* * *

 **Beginning of the story. . .**

* * *

 _Oliver Fabiano De Luca._

 _We, King County High School, are pleased to inform you that your late enrolment to our establishment has been accepted. You are required to attend your classes as a student from February 2nd_ _2015 until the end of the senior year._

 _Yours sincerely,  
_ _Principle. A. Monroe._

* * *

There was a boy.

Oliver knew that, this time.

Sometimes Oliver wasn't sure. Sometimes there were so many different faces that one person could be a thousand different people of every age, gender, size, shape and colour all at once.

But Oliver could remember, this time, though, he also couldn't remember at the same time, like an old TV show you watched as a little kid where all the characters and plots and dialogue jumble and clutter together into something you can't quite recollect anymore. But the boy, Oliver knew, had an oddly pale pallor and freckly cheeks, and he lingered in the muddled teenager's memory like something he desperately wanted - no, _needed_ to hold on to, along with his dark brown hair and the bluer than blue eyes; the kind of eyes that almost made Oliver feel intimidated if he looked at them for too long. Oliver was pretty sure the strange boy had some kind of chocolate too. _Pudding?_ he wondered at one, or one-hundred points. _M &M's, too? _He was pretty sure. _Or a candy bar, Big Cat._ _Maybe. Probably._ But, he wasn't entirely certain.

Though, it wasn't _just_ the boy. There were others. Other people. There was a man – a father, Oliver knew, somehow. _Probably._ He had the same blue eyes as the boy with the pudding, but the father's eyes were heavy and deep with regret and suppressed trauma. The boy's eyes were, too, but, it was a different kind, the kind that made the boy seem like he wasn't quite as far gone. There was also a woman, grey short hair and eyes that matched. Oliver couldn't quite decipher her. But, he felt like he probably shouldn't try too. Like she was some bank safe that he had no place in peeking at. She seemed gentle. Friendly. But there was something about her that made Oliver afraid of her. That _fear_ though, it was the kind of fear that didn't make him want to run away and hide. Because Oliver loved that woman, like a son loves his mother, somehow, despite them not being related at all, and she loved him too; discreetly and slowly and carefully, like she didn't trust herself to. Like she was afraid of breaking him as if he were something made of glass or crystal.

Is there a word for a mother without a child? There are orphans. That word in particular hurt whenever Oliver thought of it, because for some reason he was sure it applied to him. But a word for a childless mother? He couldn't articulate one so terrible. But if there is a word for it, then that word is what Oliver thought of when he saw the lady with grey hair and eyes that matched.

There were more people, a lot more, but Oliver couldn't remember them all so well, there was... a baby, a Korean guy, on old man with a pocket watch, a lady with pony tails, a lady with dreadlocks, a girl with blond hair who sang a lot, a brother and his little sister, but, they sort of blurred into a merge of muddy, tense, sweaty faces that came in and out of focus at odd moments, entire lives hidden in their frowns and creases and scars and bruises, like some grubby group photo in Oliver's head.

A family.

But, _his_ family.

Sort of.

Maybe.

Somehow.

But Oliver was waking up, dazed and irritated from the sudden _ding!_ right beside his pillow. He slapped his cell-phone at first, as if it would be enough to insult the damned thing into shutting up and letting him sleep, and it went silent, like a scolded dog, the light of the touch screen darkening.

Oliver had fallen asleep listening to music, like usual, so the battery was dying, and the odd array of shuffled songs still played in his head over and over even though his _Fav songs May 2015_ playlist had finished hours ago. He looked to his window, only to see the curtains closed. Back home, in Lorton, he always left his curtains open at night, had done ever since he was a kid, there was always too much to look at. But he left them closed here. It felt too alien in King County.

Even after his first three months here, as he pushed himself up and habitually peered out of the window, it didn't feel the same. So Oliver closed his eyes and buried his face into his pillow. He started falling asleep again. But his phone _ding!_ ed a second time.

"Dammit."

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 03:57am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

What're those things on hoodies and sweat pants called again? The string parts.

* * *

 **Time: 04:03am**

Ollie! Wake up! I'm dying of not knowing.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:04am  
** **Subject: Fuuuuuuck**

You have Google. And I value my sleep. Stop writing and go to bed.

Ps. Toggles.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:05am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Clove Humplebree of the Elven Empire and I thank you. And hey, how did you know I was writing?

Ps. Also, it's impossible to search for something I don't know the name of.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:07am  
** **Subject: Sleep**

You're always writing. And you're only partially welcome, because 1. I'm tired and have a calc test tomorrow, and 2. For the thousandth time, I don't take praise from fictional characters. And 3. Go to bed, Penelope.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:08am  
** **Subject: Sleep**

You're no fun.

Good luck on the test.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:09am  
** **Subject: Sleep**

Insomnia isn't fun. Go to sleep.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:11am  
** **Subject: Sleep**

Fine, I'll go. Night.

Ps. Here's a gift for your valiant troubles.

(link)

* * *

 **Time: 4:28am**

Did you open it yet?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:30am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

You know you sent me porn, right?

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:32am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Says the boy who took eighteen minutes to reply...

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:34am  
** **Subject: Screw you!**

I fell asleep, perv!

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:35am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Sure. Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:46am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

That's it. I'm muting my phone now.

* * *

This time, it was more people Oliver dreamt of. But unlike the people before, these people weren't familiar. They were strangers. . .

They were dead.  
Groaning and moaning and rotting and ambling.

Oliver tried to run, but his hands were bound, and there was a man. Another stranger. But he wasn't dead like the others, and he was on the ground, sprawled across bloody and singed grass and weeds and dirt, and Oliver was afraid of him. So, so afraid. Oliver only just noticed that the stranger's face was under his foot before he slammed it down, right into the centre of his terrified expression. Once, his sneaker sole struck skull, then twice, then three times. . . over and over. Blood and brain matter were wet and red and lumpy and sticking in Oliver's shoe, turning it's blue fabric crimson.

Oliver was terrified.

 _ **BEEP-BEEP-BEEP**_

Oliver startled awake, reaching out to his alarm clock and turning it off. The silence filled his bedroom and he lay still for a few minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to settle again. _Just a nightmare,_ he told himself. _It's not real._

His dreams often skipped from subject to subject. More so if he stayed up watching gory Zombie TV shows. But sometimes his dreams got pretty messed up. It was a little worrying. Sometimes they were about people getting sick, kidnapped, about murderers, rapists, cannibals, great rulers turned corrupt and dangerous, good friends shifted and morphed to insanity and creatures plagued by hatred and resentment, about monsters, and children killing children right in front of him. Sometimes he made himself dream his own family dead, and it was slow and terrible and cruel... always. Sometimes Oliver woke up so disturbed that he'd clamber out of bed and yack in his trash can.

Penelope wanted him to keep a dream journal so that she could use some of the night-terrors as ideas for her story writing. But the notion of keeping anything that resembled a diary for himself was ridiculous to Oliver, even though sometimes he kind of did want to.

But he didn't have time to think about cruddy weird dreams. Oliver had to get ready for school. He had to spend thirty minutes summoning the motivation to roll out of bed, take his inhaler, crawl across the basement and into the shower, try to control his wavy brown hair that seemed to challenge the laws of gravity into something that could maybe be considered socially acceptable.

He declined the avocado toast that his mother, Rosa De Luca, offered him, like he always did, grabbed a handful of cereal instead and ignored his mother's half-heartedly disapproving glance at him for it. Oliver ruffled his little brother's hair, and the little boy growled at him happily.

"See you, Em," he said.

Emilio De Luca was four years old. His birthday had just passed January 24th. He was the spitting image of both Oliver and Patrick, the latter being Oliver's and Em's older brother of twenty. If you put a picture of the three brothers next to each other at the same age, the three were almost identical. Dark brown hair, of which Em's was only just the lightest, and they all had tanned olive skin and big brown eyes and under-bites that they'd inherited from their father.

Rosa told Oliver she loved him and reminded him to have a good day, and Oliver mumbled that he loved her too –meant it more than it sounded, and then said that he would have a good day –wanted to mean that too, but knew better.

"Spaghetti tonight?" she asked him quietly, eating her avocado toast.

Oliver collected his rucksack and stepped over to the fridge, catching Em in the act of currently trying to climb up it, and he plucked the four year old from the door handle by his wrists and placed him on the floor again, before heading to the front door. Anyone else in the world would have thought Oliver hadn't answered his mother, but Rosa saw his nod and heard his quietly mumbled, "Sure, Mom," as he left.

That was the De Luca family.

They were a family of quiet voices and subtle gestures and under-bitten facial expressions and big brown eyes. Though, he hardly considered them all a family anymore anyway. For 1. He, Em and their mother were the only members of it who had moved to King County that spring, because 2. Patrick was working for a guy, Jim or something, as an Apprentice Engineer in a car repair place back in Virginia, and 3. Their parents had been divorced for three years now.

In this moment, Oliver was pretty sure that his father was in an expensive New Jersey hotel room fucking some tanned rich bitch he'd met the night before. As much as he hated thinking like this, he couldn't help it.

Once, when Oliver was barely sixteen, six months since the divorce, he was spending a week in Orlando with his father. He'd heard the mumbling and the moaning and the shuffling from outside on his way back with the grocery shopping. He'd seen his father smile at the lady across the hall, touch her hip when they passed in the parking lot, and heard them talking and laughing the night before in the hallway outside while Oliver watched _Finding Nemo_ for the hundredth time on cable. But he hadn't connected the dots. Not until he walked right into the rented condo and found his father and the thin blonde accumulating in a tangled heap of skin and sweat and semen on the couch. They didn't even notice the horrified boy until the milk he'd been holding fell from his grip and exploded over the carpet.

Oliver spent a lot of time trying not to think about that day. It was the first time in his life that he realised there was no chance his parents would ever get back together again.

Now, it was a Tuesday.

It was his third month in King County High school after moving with his mother and little brother. He hated it. Sure, the small, rural town was attractive and clean, and there were trees and small local stores and parks, which was good – reminded Oliver a little of home. _Real_ home in Lorton. But so far, Oliver hadn't managed to make any substantial friends. There were people he had spoken to, and people he worked with in class and pretended to smile at if he saw them in town. But Oliver hadn't gotten any further than that. The first month, he tried. The second, he tried even harder. Now, with less than a month left of school, Oliver had long since accepted having no real friends.

A few other kids from school _had_ spoken to Oliver, well, spoken _at_ him rather. Because, well, Oliver couldn't really talk very well while four guys in his grade were busy stuffing his head into the second floor boy's toilet's in the Art Department, neither could he talk very well while two punks were pinning him against the wall while the other rooted through his things. But they only stole the few dollars he had and a _Fear The Walking Dead_ comic book which had taken him three shifts at the library back home to save up for.

His mother called his work at Lorton's Local Library _slavery,_ but Oliver had pointed out that 1. He could take out books for free, and 2. It wasn't slavery if he was partially volunteering, since 3. It was illegal for slaves to learn how to read in the sixteen-hundreds anyway, so 4. Seeing as he _could_ read, and 5, that he was paid a little... it most definitely was not slavery. Plus, he _loved_ working there, and he hated having to quit.

Anyway, with school, Oliver didn't complain. He was used to it. The bullies at King County actually weren't as bad as back in Lorton. The only reason they went after Oliver here was because he was the quiet transfer kid. An easy target. Oliver didn't mind, well, as far as _didn't mind_ could stretch when you're getting your face forced into a toilet, that is. The guy who'd done that, some senior jock called Benny Sansa, ordered Oliver to call himself a pussy ass faggot because he'd ran away from the dodge balls in Gym class.

Oliver tried to point out, in the few moments that his head was above the toilet water, that 1. The aim of the game was _to_ run away from the dodge balls, and 2. He shouldn't have to even say the words pussy or faggot out loud in any derogatory way, furthermore refer to himself by them, because 3. It was neither embarrassing nor insulting to be gay or any other sexual orientation at all.

He wanted to say that Benny should realise that he'd been living in the twenty-first century for fifteen years now and that he should know that gay-shaming wasn't even cool anymore, but Benny grimaced at all the big words Oliver had managed to splutter out, and stuffed his head into the toilet again, ordering the soggy boy to call himself a pussy ass faggot. And so Oliver called himself a pussy ass faggot.

But, really, the bullies didn't know him in King County, they didn't know his weak spots or Achilles heels, which buttons to press to make him tremble and cry and want to die. Unlike the bullies he'd grown up with back home, they hadn't found a reason to really hate him yet.

 _Yet_ being the word of note in that sentence.

Today though, Oliver practically _gave_ them a reason.  
He pretty much served it on a silver platter!

Oliver was boarding to school. There had always been something about riding a skateboard that made Oliver feel good. Limitless. Free. _Sempiternal,_ Penelope'd once called it.

He liked how the wind flipped his hair away from his eyebrows and neck and face, how he'd have to hold on to his beanie hat if he made a sharp turn or did a trick. He liked how alone it made him feel. But not a bad kind of alone, in a sense. But like it was just him, in his own head, the only voices floating around in there being his own conscience's.

Slowly, over the years, Oliver had grown to like being alone. He'd come to find comfort in his own thoughts, even in the times that they became dark and scary and upsetting. It was something about him that other people often took as rudeness. But that had never been his intention. Oliver never _tried_ to be rude. It was just how he'd learnt to protect himself. To isolate. Bracing for impact. Create as much distance as he could just so that it wouldn't hurt so much when they realised who and what he really was. Because Oliver had secrets. Things he didn't tell his parents. Things he didn't tell his brothers. Things he didn't tell Penelope. Things he couldn't even admit to himself. You see, his belief was that if he told himself something for long enough, maybe –just maybe– it would become true. So Oliver told himself that he was better off on his own. He told himself that having no friends wasn't the end of the world. That he didn't still hurt over his parents divorce. That sparing his mother the sad details was easier than breaking her heart with the truth. That lying in bed staring at the ceiling craving to _feel_ something other than the emptiness that plagued him like a virus was something that would pass or become bearable one day. That King County was his home now, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

His hand ran over the railing as he travelled along-side it. It was hot today, over thirty-seven degrees. The scorch from the railing lingered on his hand even after he'd let go of it, and he pressed his stinging palm to his thigh and held it there, focussing on the heat as it leaked into his jeans until it faded away again.

He was riding his skateboard through the gates a little later than he'd liked to have been, which wasn't really late at all, since Oliver was usually early for everything. There weren't many people on the side walk, and he was going to dismount – step on the end of the board and get it to stop under him, and he was thinking about it, looking down and gauging his balance.

But he hit something.

There was a cry, and his own grunt, and the board flung out from under him and sent both victims to the asphalt. It burnt his hands and knees –damned Georgian heat– and Oliver scrambled desperately, grabbing his beanie from the floor.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting hazel.

Her light auburn shoulder-length hair flung messily over her face as she pushed herself up with her elbows. She was wearing a yellow floral summer dress with a striped pink and orange long sleeve top under it, and she had a pair of dyed red skinny jeans on, and some bright purple converse sneakers, odd socks inside of them. She was in Oliver's Home Ec class. Sophia, Oliver was pretty sure.

Someone picked up her backpack, and Oliver looked up further, squinting, his breath hitching in his throat as he saw Duane Jones. He was in Oliver's Drama class, dark skin and brown eyes and black buzz-cut hair and a worried expression that looked like it might have just always been that way, permanently etched into his expression. He was wearing a MARVEL T-shirt.

But the other boy, _he_ was who Oliver was staring at, because he looked infuriated. Oliver knew him, but didn't know his name, despite the fact that they had Gym, Sociology and Calc together. _Cory?_ He wondered. _Callum? C... C something._ He, Duane and Sophia were often seen together. The trio reminded Oliver of Harry, Ron and Hermione, though, he never said so aloud, obviously.

Oliver held his breath, watching C. Blue eyes. His dark brown hair hung over his pale freckled forehead and temples, and when his eyes shot to Oliver's, like two periwinkle bullets, Oliver almost flinched, but he sort of just leant over and caught his skate board instead.

"What is your problem?"

Oliver swallowed at the order, his throat tightening – damned stress induced asthma was a bitch. He shook his head like he was looking for a way out rather than summoning an answer for the _C_ boy.

"Are you gonna apologise?" Duane asked, his expression still tight.

Oliver nodded then. But still couldn't control his own tongue. It was filling his mouth, stopping him from talking or breathing. The blue eyed boy hissed through his teeth and leant down to Sophia. She winced as he helped her up, rubbing the graze on her palm.

"You okay, Sophia?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Blue eyes looked back at Oliver, who was still sprawled across the ground, his skateboard behind him, grey beanie in hand after he'd grabbed it from the asphalt. Oliver was wearing a button up flannel, and he knew his clothes looked worn and like they'd been passed down over generations, when in truth, it was only his older brother Patrick who had owned them previously.

Blue eyes glared at Oliver, who couldn't wipe the total shock and embarrassment off of his expression, and Oliver hated himself for it. People were already staring, laughing, whispering, waiting for the fists to get thrown. Oliver anticipated them, betting it would be blue eyes first with a right cross across his jaw, then Duane with a swift kick to each ball sack.

Blue eyes dropped his hand from Sophia's shoulder, and Oliver braced himself. . .

"C'mon, guys."

Stunned, Oliver watched the three disgruntled teenagers leave, and he got up from the side walk, brushing himself off and inwardly palming himself in the face, and punching himself in the gut, and stuffing his own head in a toilet.

Oliver's shin stung, and he was pretty sure he'd scratched his lip on the asphalt. But he ignored it and collected his backpack and skateboard, making his way to class with the rest of the bustle of students who had walked away from the anti-climactic scene.

He endured Business Fundamentals painfully, then English Lit, then Philosophy, paying minimal attention to the teachers, and paying the rest of his attention to the clocks on the walls even though he tried not to, and each time he would cave and look up, and he would be amazed that only a few minutes had passed since the last time he looked. It was something that Oliver was well used to but had never failed to find infuriating. But finally, like he knew it would, and like all of them did eventually, class ended.

He had a forty minute lunch break before Home Room, then Home Ec class after, then another class he'd forgotten and then he could go home. He ate his potato chips and read a book outside the classroom to wait. It was a few minutes until he realised he hadn't turned his phone off of mute since Penelope's early and wildly inappropriate emails, so he checked.

There were two unread emails. The first was from Patrick:

* * *

 **From:** _ **patmanitaliano  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 08:12am  
** **Subject: Updates**

Young sir!

Dad's asking us to go to the cabin this weekend. I made an excuse and said I have to work. How's Mom and Em? How's King County? Did you make the soccer team? Get nominated for prom king? Get all the girls?

It's all good over here. Lorton's pretty quiet, like usual. Scab hasn't left the old house yet though. Monday I tried to catch him, tried using a net, but he almost clawed my jugular out! I've sort of given up. But Nell's been feeding him over there so he's okay. Work's good. Hard. But being an engineer has its perks. I get tonnes of free root beer, plus, getting called a nerd is actually a compliment. (Go figure, nerd) Also, a five o'clock shadow is not only acceptable, but encouraged. And saying, _'I'm an engineer'_ is actually an effective pick up line!

* * *

Oliver imagined his older brother using the pick-up line on someone, but he laughed, because he could only see the poor unsuspecting victim scoff and roll her eyes in disgust.

Scab, by the way, was Oliver's pet cat back in Lorton. A mongrel that'd wondered in through Oliver's bedroom window early one morning a few years back. Oliver wasn't sure why he'd called it Scab. Probably because it had a massive one on its shoulder. The scar tissue had healed all bumpy and jagged. Oliver still wasn't sure if it was a girl or a boy. But it hardly mattered. It still had crossed eyes and a missing ear and a partially bald crooked tail, and its front left paw was missing two claws just to top off how tragic the poor thing was. Oliver rarely ever saw Scab. It often went weeks between coming home. But it always came back eventually, wanting scraps or for someone to scratch that itchy part under its chin. That _'someone'_ was always Oliver. If Patrick saw the cat he ignored it, or, if it was convenient, shot elastic bands at it from his fingers. If Rosa saw it, she chased it out of the house with a fly swatter. If Em saw it, well, no, actually, Em never saw it. Scab kept at least a three room distance between itself and Em at all times ever since Em had tried to pull it up the stairs by its tail.

Anyway, Oliver felt a sense of pride in the cat for its stubbornness to move. He wished he could have kept up such a vigorous fight. But Oliver just kept his mouth shut and put up with it.

He wrote back, _Dad hasn't asked me yet._ And tried to decide whether he was glad or jealous. Then added, _Mom's good. Em's still... high spirited._ 'High spirited' was the most commonly used term for Emilio. He was the kind of four year old that you needed to keep your eye on at all times. You'd find him hanging from the banisters, tearing up the cushions in the living room, hiding behind the TV wondering what that big red cable would taste like, or sat in the bath tub behind the curtain watching you go. _King County's good. Good as in, no one's hung me upside-down by my underwear yet._ _And no, I didn't try for any team, or get nominated, neither have I even so much as been looked at by a girl. Also, leave Scab be. What has be ever done to you? Oh, you know, apart from the whole jugular clawing thing... Glad Penelope's feeding him. Enjoy the root beer, and the compliments (thanks), and the shadow. Though, I suggest coming up with a better pick up line... Ps. 'Apprentice'. You forgot that part before the 'Engineer' bit. Don't get ahead of yourself,_ _bro_ _._

Once sent, he checked his second email:

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:37am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Miss you, Ollie.

* * *

She'd sent it only a few moments after he'd muted his phone this morning. The reply, _I miss you, too,_ itched at his finger tips, made Oliver's gut feel like it was ringing itself out. But Oliver exited his email and pocketed his cell. He had to go to Home Room, plus, it was too late to reply to her now anyway.

* * *

 **Notes**

So, there's the first chapter. Thanks to those of you who recommended this to me! It kind of means the world to me that you're willing to read more of the boys. Thanks. xxx

This whole story is highly inspired by two novels I've recently finished reading. The first, **Paper Towns** (ohmygodjohngreenyouaremyking) and **This is what Happy Looks Like** (whyistherenofuckingfanfictionsectionforthisstory!?)

I know that in this Oliver is a little different. But bare in mind that this is the story of his life had the Apocalypse never happened (along with all those crazy coincidences that is causing him to meet the people he would have -and wouldn't have- met from the show too ;D) but yes, he is not going to be exactly the same as our Oliver. Tell me what you thought. New chapters should be up soon. Though, what with the main show coming back soon, plus the next chapter in the main story in a few days, I've got a lot of writing to get done, you know, as well as do lau and talk to real life people and stuff x

Thanks again!

As always,  
Happy reading ^.^ : _)_


	2. Part 1: Judith, Let Go of Your Brother

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** DUDE DUDE DUDE DUDE YOU'RE AMAZING

 **DarthGranola** Haha, Em is so cute! Yeah, Ollie did meet Carl. He was the "C" with the bullet eyes and all that blah stuff haha

 **Luna De Octubre** Muchas gracias. Ti amo! Tuve que Google Traducir tu comentario xD Además, me encanta tu foto. Elle Fanning es mi actriz favorita!

 **ILoveGoten1999** Ah! Thank you! Okay!

 **The Flash Fanatic** Awww, thank you!

 **Biter two** I love you. Like, wow, you made me cry. xxx

 **QueenSeer161** Thank you. So much. That means the world :)

* * *

 **From:** **_MDDeLuca_** _ **_Psychiatrist  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 13:45pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Hey, buddy. I'm at the Cabin next weekend. Wondered if you wanted to come along? It's only from Friday to Sunday, then I'm off to Montana. What do you say?

* * *

 **DRAFT**

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** ** _MDDeLuca_** _ _ **_Psychiatrist  
**__ **Subject: (no subject)**

Sure. I'd like that, Dad.

* * *

"De Luca?"

Oliver stuffed his cell under his leg, looked up.

"Hand it over."

Oliver blinked, like he hadn't heard.

"Your phone."

Again, a blink.

"Hand. It. Over... Now."

Oliver got up from his seat, awkwardly and rigidly, enriched eyes following him across the class room to Mr. Blake's desk. He held out his hand, and Oliver stopped himself from grimacing as he handed the cell over.

"Thank you."

His pride now successfully deflated, Oliver went back to his seat. His home room consisted of around thirty teenagers. All of which he avoided like an outbreak. Much as they did him. Though, two girls, Eliza Morals and Ellie Rhee, Oliver sat next to. Ellie and Eliza were best friends and were both actually called Elizabeth. People often mixed up their short names anyway, and they were probably the closest things to friends Oliver had made so far. They had never actually spoken to him, directly, much like he had never spoken to them, directly. But when Oliver forgot his pencil a few days after starting school, Eliza noticed and asked Ellie to hand him one. Oliver took it, but couldn't find his voice, and even when he gave the pencil back at the end of home room all he could muster was a slight grunt at the floor. In that moment, both girls had probably decided that they'd made a mistake. But anyway, Oliver, Eliza and Ellie had sat beside each other in that order ever since.

They had an unspoken agreement, you see. The girls would let him sit in quiet beside them, feigning acquaintance relations and helping each other out on small class assignments, and as a result he would be less likely to get bothered by anyone else, and in return the two girls would be able to sit together without talking to anyone else apart from each other.

Girls were weird, Oliver decided.  
But then again, so was Oliver.  
But, then again, so was everyone really.

Oliver's tutor, the cell-thief, was also Oliver's History teacher. He was a fairly well built man. Tall. Imposing. Known by the name, Philip Blake, and referred to as Mr. Blake, or sometimes, in Oliver's head, Mr. Snake. Because sometimes Mr. Blake _looked_ like a snake. If he was in a particularly foul mood his eyes would narrow and his tongue would dart the slightest bit from between his teeth, and Mr. Blake had this way of slithering between desks, catching you at your most vulnerable without the note in your text book that you'd forgotten to jot down, or with a phone under the desk (similar to what'd just happened to Oliver). Mr. Blake was sort of the biggest miserable bastard Oliver had ever met. He had a chess piece on his desk. A king. Someone had drawn an eye patch on it. It creeped Oliver out because no matter where he went in the room the stupid thing always seemed to be staring right at him, like it knew something Oliver didn't.

The bell rang for next period, and the senior students began to file out of the door.

"Sir?" Mr. Snake–Blake, shot his eyes up. The blue oracles were cold and pale and dark all at the same time. Oliver wanted to wince, but instead he summoned the rest of his sentence, "can I have my cell back?"

"Why?"

Oliver frowned, then stopped, looked around awkwardly as if the teacher had asked someone else. It turned out he hadn't, and Oliver realised this when he looked back at him again.

"Why should I give it back to you?" he repeated.

"Uhh..." Oliver mumbled. When he spoke to people he wasn't familiar with, his voice sounded like it wasn't quite sure of itself, almost asking. He knew of it, but he was never conscious of when he was doing it enough to stop. "It's my cell."

"And it was my class you were using it through."

Now, it may be pretty obvious, but it's worth explaining just to be clear; Oliver had never been argumentative growing up. Ever. Conflict was something he'd avoided with everything in him, but lately, things had been different. He'd been speaking back to his mom. Arguing with Pat over the phone. Using sarcasm to snap back at bullies during their ridicules. It usually always got him into some kind of trouble and the only people he seemed not to ever talk back to was his father and his teachers.

Until today.

Maybe it was the move, or the perpetual quietness of himself that Oliver'd never quite been able to grow out of, because in one day Oliver had managed to utter a grand total of fourteen English words so far. Though, then again, maybe Oliver was just exhausted after all those emails with Penelope this morning, or maybe he was simply getting tired of keeping his mouth shut. Either way, he spoke up. . .

"Look," he said, and, granted, he'd said it rather quietly, but he still felt the thrill of rebellious satisfaction, though, had enough common-sense to bite back the _"ass face"._ "Home Room doesn't even count as a real class."

Mr. Blake's stare hardened. Didn't even say anything. But Oliver still suddenly became aware of how terrified he was.

He was back to mumbling, his voice questioning without asking anything. "I... I was sending an email to my dad."

"You're dad can't wait?" Mr. Blake asked, his voice calm despite his intimidating everythingness.

Oliver gritted his teeth and winced, half expecting the man to recoil back before striking, and although Oliver's next sentence was supposed to be an apology, it came out sarcastic. "I'm sorry I used my phone during class, Mr. Blake."

The man smiled approvingly, but he still looked like he would strike. "Good."

Oliver reached his hand out, held it there for a moment, but pulled back when the man didn't relent the property.

"Tomorrow."

There it was.  
The strike.  
It was so brutal that Oliver's stomach knotted.

"It's mi-"

"I can add a day? Friday sound good?"

"I... I-I..." Mumbling. _Fucking_ mumbling.

"Monday?" Mr. Blake threatened as if he didn't hear him. He probably didn't to be honest. "I wonder if it's possible for today's youth to go an entire weekend without their cell-phones and ipads and ipods..." Oliver took a breath to dull the swell of anger, and Mr. Blake took a breath of satisfaction, tipping forward to press his palms against the desk-top. "Come back tomorrow and your phone'll be in the same condition as you left it. I'm sure you can call your dad or use a computer to email him. Is that not a fair enough coda?"

Oliver nodded stiffly and held in the bitter sarcastic comments that rolled around his mind like muddy children. "Yes, sir," he said, turning. "Thank you."

* * *

Oliver's fourth class on Tuesday was Home Economics, taught by Miss. Peletier.

Oliver couldn't cook.  
At all.  
He burnt milk!

He didn't know about food safety further than _"don't re-heat things too much"_ –especially him, because he had a pitifully weak stomach. But overall Oliver's concept of actually cooking and preparing a meal stretched about as far as the range of a teaspoon. So, odds ever _not_ in the eighteen year old's favour, the class' task was to make chocolate chip cookies.

"Ma'am?" He'd picked a quiet moment while the other students had started to prepare their individual ingredients.

"Yes," Mrs – no, _Miss..._ He was pretty sure it was Miss. Peletier, said, glancing up at the boy. Her hand dropped from her pixie-cut grey hair to her desk, smiling warmly. It amazed Oliver that after three months he still felt like a stranger to this place, not even able to remember if she was a _Mrs_ or a _Miss._ It was pathetic. _He_ was pathetic. "Oliver, how can I help you?"

Oliver pulled at his beanie. "I didn't bring any ingredients for the cookies," he said. _Patheticpatheticpathetic._

"Oh, yes, right," she said, sitting up properly, "you're the transfer." It was only then that Oliver realised this was the primary identifier he'd gained at King County so far, still. The transfer. Nobody had come up with anything else. Except Benny with the whole _pussy ass faggot_ thing. But for some reason _t_ _he transfer_ had stuck. He definitely preferred it over Benny's identifier, and the various others from Lorton. "No, that's okay," Carol went on, "I issued the list of ingredients two weeks before you got here. You can team up with Sophia this morning."

The moment she had used the girl's name Oliver's eyes bulged out of his head. Upon arrival to Home Ec today, knowing that the girl in his Home Ec class was the same girl he'd practically ran over this morning, Oliver had retreated to his seat quickly and quietly at the back of the room, glad that it was near enough as far away from her as possible. But still, his eyes kept glancing up at her, his stomach shooting him with anxiety, each time relieved to see that she hadn't risen from her seat and stormed over to him ordering him to go fuck himself. Her hazel eyes and auburn hair and colourful sense of style weren't exactly unnoticeable, and so he couldn't help it, looking again and again, anxious and relieved and pathetic.

 _Why Sophia?!_ he wanted to order Miss. Peletier. _Why, out of every other student in the whole freaking class would you choose Sophia?!_

Paranoid, he almost felt the burn of her narrowing eyes at him. He turned and crossed the room. Sophia was leant over the counter, pouring sugar into a measuring jug, and Oliver stood beside her, thumbing at the pre-heating oven, the handles smooth and cold against his palms. Sophia hadn't actually paid him any attention, so he cleared his throat, prompting her to glance over her colourful shoulder to him, and she looked him up and down; scrutiny was his guess, but curiosity was the truth.

"Hey, skater boy."

Oliver wasn't sure how to respond, so he said the only thing he knew for sure he was supposed to tell her. . . "I'm supposed to be with you."

"Wow." The girl smirked at the sugar. "At least buy me a drink first. I don't even know your name."

Oliver wanted to slap his palm over his mouth and take back the misunderstood sentence, but instead he blushed and wondered if he would yack, and he scrambled over the words he was supposed to be apologising with. "I... uh... N-no..." He felt guilty just knowing her name, even if it was only her first name he knew.

Sophia.

The three syllables felt like they were something vicious in Oliver's hands that he couldn't think what to do with. Like Scab when it got territorial over the trash cans out on the driveway in Lorton. Oliver would have to grab the furious mongrel cat and throw it in the hedge.

Sophia, though, was not a vicious cat – Oliver was fairly sure at least. She smiled feebly at him, then looked up at Miss. Peletier in annoyance, and Oliver saw the way the teacher lifted her silver eyebrows back at the girl. He looked away, guilty and embarrassed and aware that Sophia was being forced to work with him, and he didn't fail to notice how Sophia glared at their teacher in challenge and resentment, which confused Oliver because students didn't behave like that to teachers, or, at least they weren't supposed to, though, he had already broken that rule today with Mr. Blake.

 _Maybe they just do that here,_ he thought. _Talk back to teachers._ _Maybe that's how it works in King County._ Either way, Oliver missed his cell-phone already, and so, in the same moment, decided he wasn't going to make challenging teachers a routine any time soon.

When Sophia sighed, relenting, she looked at Oliver and pointed at the cupboard across from her. "Get the sifter, please?" she asked.

Oliver went to the cupboard. Opened it. Stared at its contents. "Uh." He looked up at her. "Sifter?"

" _Seriously?_ " Sophia said.

Oliver tried not to wince, but he couldn't help it, and so shrugged at the same time. Back in Lorton the students were made to choose between Home Ec or Shop class. Oliver chose Shop. Here, seniors had to do both.

"It's a _sifter,_ " she said.

Oliver shrugged again. He wasn't totally clueless. He knew what most things were called in the kitchen but it was the weird utensils that he wasn't sure of. It was their Italian identifiers Oliver knew them by, as that was often the tongue his mother spoke in while cooking herself. His mother wasn't a good cook either and using English while she cooked was usually too stressful to remember.

"The bowl thing with tiny holes in it – oh, no, that's a colander for pasta." Rosa called it a _scòla-pàsta._ "Yeah," Sophia said when Oliver's hand hovered over another item, "that one."

He took the thingy he now realised was a sifter, brought it to her, felt like an idiot because he really should've known already.

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry."

Oliver had blurted it at her, suddenly, like throwing something hot out of his hands. Sophia actually startled. "It's okay," she said, and smiled. "It's just a sifter."

"I'm... I'm sorry." Oliver knew he should've just stopped there. But, for the first time in what felt like his life, he couldn't. "For running you over. This morning. With my skateboard. Um. Yeah. S-sorry."

She knew what he was talking about, and as he rambled he watched Sophia's eyebrows arch in the middle, the freckles across her cheeks and forehead standing out like sparks from one of those loud metal machines Patrick talked about from work sometimes. Oliver wasn't sure if this was good or bad.

"It's okay," she accepted, softer, and lifted her hand; to shake, Oliver presumed, but she presented her palm instead, showing the small sore-looking scab on the heel of it. "I kinda like my new _war wound_ anyway."

Oliver almost smiled, but he sort of just inhaled instead, all sorts of relieved.

"Your name's – no wait, I know it... Oliver, right?" Sophia asked, and then she kept talking before he could do more than nod. "Something. Lucy?"

"Luca," he said. "Oliver De Luca."

"Cool." Sophia smiled warmly. Oliver wondered who her smile reminded him of. "Well, Oliver De Luca," she said, with that somehow-familiar smile, "let's get to making these cookies."

* * *

School had ended, and somehow Oliver wasn't in his own house. All day he'd been looking forward to doing so; longing for that moment he could close his bedroom door, toss his backpack on his chair, sink into his mattress, and stare at the ceiling, blank his mind for the time it took his little brother to climb up the staircase and come into his bedroom. Em would see Oliver and wait for the older teen to invite him in, and sometimes, if Oliver couldn't summon the energy, Em would just come in anyway. He'd climb up and sit on Oliver's stomach, and if Oliver still didn't pay him any attention, Em would tap his chin until he did.

On one occasion a few weeks ago, Em asked him, "Why are you so unhappy, Oliver?" Oliver had never heard Emilio use that word before. _Unhappy._ He didn't even know that Em knew the meaning of it, but he must have, because it was only in that moment when Oliver had finally looked at his little brother that he started bawling his eyes out. Em got off of him and watched his older brother cry into his hands, and Oliver finally forced himself to stop, and only did when Em handed him a Lego piece and said, "I always feel happy when I play Legos," and Oliver took the red piece in his hand and pressed it to his lips, smiling, and Em smiled, too, and asked, "wanna play?" and Oliver nodded and wiped his eyes, and the two boys proceeded to build a Lego car together. Em never told anyone that he saw Oliver cry. Part of Oliver knew it was because he probably didn't remember, but another part of him believed that it was because Em was good at keeping secrets for people.

But anyway.  
Now?

Now Oliver was in his house...  
 _His_ house. The C boy's house.  
His name was Carl Grimes.

The four of them were there. He, Carl, Duane and Sophia. Oliver didn't quite know how it'd happened. At first he thought the C boy with the pale skin and the long dark brown hair and the blue eyes in his Calc class hated him after this morning. The other boy with the dark skin and hair and worried eyes, too. But Oliver and Carl left Calc (they both seemed equally frazzled by the test) and Sophia met them. Both of them. She was nice to Oliver, and so Carl stopped ignoring him, and later, when Duane showed from his class, he and Carl stopped exchanging disapproving glances and eyeing Oliver up when they thought he didn't notice, following Sophia's example and easing up to the boy who had almost run them over this morning.

When Carl asked them if they wanted to go over his house after school, it was obvious that he didn't mean for _Oliver_ to come along, too. But Sophia asked before Carl could hint it anymore obviously, and neither boy could really say no. Sophia, Oliver realised, was the sort of person you didn't want to disappoint. There was something about her that made you want to be friends with her – that made you want her to like you. But not in a way that made you feel like you were being taken advantage of, which Oliver thought was a good quality, a _rare_ quality, and it prompted an odd sort of automatic respect and fondness for her. Like Mother Theresa. But, you know, young and pretty and not actually a Saint.

But back to where Oliver had found himself.

He was taking a glass of lemonade from an old woman with shoulder length curly grey hair, and she was smiling through blue eyes identical to Carl's that made Oliver feel safe and grounded, somehow. Carl's grandmother. Whinny Grimes. He thanked her, and she went and poured lemonade for the others. It had only been four minutes since they'd gotten there and Whinny had already mentioned her father's valiant services to the war seventy years ago. They all smiled and nodded politely, apart from Carl, who just sort of ignored her in that _I've heard this story sooooo many times, Grandma,_ way.

Carl led them back out of the house. Carl's house was clean and domestic and normal-looking. Wooden comfy furniture. Lamps. Dark brown couches that matched the curtains (and Carl's hair), bookshelves with family friendly stock inside. A Bible, too, but even Oliver could tell that it hadn't been touched in years. On the fridge was a photo; Carl, Oliver could tell easily. He looked happy, if not a little embarrassed that he was being made to smile for the picture, and he was young, thirteen or fourteen maybe, wearing an orange and white soccer jersey with red shorts. But the thing was, Oliver _recognised_ the attire. Furthermore, Oliver recogni-

"C'mon," Carl said, and Oliver snapped his eyes away from the photograph. Oliver wanted to ask where it'd been taken, even though he knew the answer, and he was going to ask, but was distracted when he became vaguely aware of panting.

He saw the dog. A black Labrador. It looked old, greying around the mouth and eyes and paws and joints, with loose flabs of skin hanging and rolling over its neck and gut, but it wasn't until he saw the small head of light brown curly hair and the pair of blue eyes peering at him through the dog's front legs that he realised there was a little girl there, too.

"Hey, Judy."

She greeted her big brother by sitting on the living room floor directly in front of him, without a word or noise, tapping his sneaker with her index finger a few times, and when Carl went to step around her Judy wrapped her arms around his leg and sat on his foot so suddenly that Carl grunted and almost tripped, grabbing the arm of the couch and bracing himself as he tried to shake her off.

"Judy," he gasped, "get off!"

She didn't, even at his amused yell. It reminded Oliver of Emilio, but, a quiet, pensive, collected version who climbed people's legs instead of kitchen fridges. The black dog strolled up to the rest of them, still panting, looking and moving slowly and tiredly like an old, rusty, out-dated machine that had long since seen an oil can. Oliver petted the top of its head, felt a small cyst under the fur of its left ear.

"That's – _ugh,_ " Carl tried to introduce them, frowning at his sister and attempting to pry her from his leg. "That's Jenny."

Oliver smirked and crouched down to Jenny, rubbing either side of her face, and the dog groaned into his hands and poked her tongue out in some lame attempt to lick his face. Carl was still grunting, using his hands to grab under Judith's arm-pits, trying gently-desperately to remove her.

"Grandma!" he grumbled when nothing worked. "Judy," _–grunt–_ "get off." A moment passed, until Whinny poked her head into the room, sighing and rolling her eyes when she saw her grandchildren, and when she gave her command, it was like she'd said the most casual thing in the world. . .

"Judith Grimes, let go of your brother's leg."

Oliver, having spent the last four years with his own toddling terror, kind of expected Judith to start crying maybe, or to throw a tantrum, like Em was prone to. But Judith did as she was told, granted, grudgingly, flopping backwards and splaying her arms and legs in all directions to express her contempt. Carl took a breath and stepped over her, ignoring his peculiar little sister. Duane and Sophia followed him, so Oliver went after them, feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable when the little girl just stared up at him as he passed, her small hands bunched into her own yellow top, and her little eyebrows climbed to her hairline like she was thinking more about _them_ than actually paying attention to _him._ Oliver was familiar with the look. It was just the way children stared at people. Yet, it still unnerved him.

They sat on the front yard. The four of them. The Grimes' household was in a nice-looking suburb just outside of town, or, near it, or, at the edge – Oliver still wasn't sure. He hadn't really been to much of King County. He just knew where his home was, school, nursery, the library, the corner store, and the comic book store. But he knew that the neighbourhood was safe, quiet, with clean cars and regularly mown lawns and trees along the side walk grass verges. The houses were fairly big, and Carl's front lawn was risen, the steps kind of cutting through the middle of it leading to his front door. On the right side was the driveway, what Oliver guessed was either Whinny's or Carl's (or both's) silver ford focus parked there. There was a car tyre hanging from the tree on one side of the yard. Oliver wanted to climb into it and hang up-side-down. But he chose against it, obviously. He was pretty sure they still thought he was a loser, especially Carl.

"When's your dad home?" Duane asked.

Carl's head was in Sophia's lap, and she was playing with his fringe. A few times Oliver had to resist the strange urge to reach over and touch Carl's hair, too. It looked soft. But that was weird and creepy so he didn't think about it.

"Soon. I guess."

Up until then Oliver had assumed that Carl's father wasn't in the picture at all. Like his own father wasn't, anymore, that much. For a second, Oliver was almost jealous – no, he _was_ jealous. But he looked away when Carl almost noticed and looked.

"Carl's dad is the Deputy," Sophia said, looking between them expectantly. Oliver wondered if she was trying to get them all to be friends so obviously on purpose. On the drive here she'd start conversations so that the boys would _have_ to answer and talk to each other, talk to _Oliver._ He wondered if Sophia really saw any potential for a solid friendship between the four of them, or if she was just enjoying this. But to Oliver, they seemed just fine with their current friends at school already. Though, Oliver wondered if Duane was just shy more than anything, and Oliver was pretty sure that Carl was just stubborn and rude. Talking to him was like playing straws in Oliver Twist.

"What about your mom?" Oliver asked him, picking his straw, feeling both brave and a fool, and it suddenly went quiet. Awkwardly quiet. Sophia bit her lip. Duane inhaled. Carl didn't do anything. Oliver knew he'd drawn the short straw. Then, when he was close to stuttering something he hadn't yet thought of, the Grimes answered him, shrugging against Sophia's knees. . .

"She left."

That was all he said, and Oliver was looking at him. For the first time he was really _looking_ though. And what he saw was someone isolated. Someone bracing themselves. Someone sad... Someone not unlike himself. But of course, he didn't say so. Plus, he didn't _know_ Carl. For all he knew Carl wasn't any of that at all.

"So, what do your parents do?"

It took Oliver a moment longer than it should've to realise Sophia had asked him that question. "Oh." He snapped his head around to her, and felt Carl's narrowed eyes. "Uh, my dad's a psychiatrist, or, something."

Duane frowned, "You don't know?"

Oliver shrugged and thought of the email he'd received this morning, and then thought of the email he'd written back as draft and was still trying to decide if he would send or not. To be honest, Oliver didn't miss his father, but, at the same time, he craved to see him desperately. It was a confusing paradox that tangled his thoughts like the weeds of an unkempt garden. When Mr. Blake'd caught him in Home Room, Oliver had been staring down at the send button for almost twenty minutes, weighing out his options, listing the pros and cons of going to see his father.

"I do," Oliver answered. "He is a psychiatrist; Medical Doctor. Uh, he works with people for mental research one or two months at a time, then moves to another field of research somewhere else." His father had explained this to him before, but Oliver could never quite explain it properly. Then again, it was an awful lot to explain in one sitting for a boy who hardly spoke at all.

"So," Sophia said, "you're –like– really well adjusted then right? Getting a shrink as a dad."

"Sure," he lied. He could have left it there, but Sophia did that _thing_ again that made Oliver want her to like him, without actually doing anything at all, and so he figured telling the truth was a good start. "Well I don't really talk to him much," Oliver admitted, and when the others kept looking at him he knew he had to explain better. He wondered if it was getting easier –talking– the more he practised, like playing guitar or skateboarding. "Uh. My parents split up three years ago. My dad. He's..." he tried to think of the right term. _Distant. Temporary. Complicated. Absent._ He probably should have just said, _living in North Carolina_ or something, but he said, "kind of a colossal ass hole," instead. Sophia laughed. But Oliver recognised the empathy in it even though he made himself laugh as well.

"Mine, too," she said.

Duane looked worried again. Oliver felt self-conscious, like usual, because Carl was still narrowing his eyes. For some reason, Oliver annoyed him, but Oliver saw the intrigue in his eyes, too. The irritable curiosity. Maybe it was because Oliver spoke Italian... Carl had almost hit a motorbike on the way home. Oliver barely kept from leaping across the car, muttering, _"Fanculo caspita!"_ under his breath and blushing when Carl looked at him funny for it through the mirror. Even now, as Carl kept frowning at him, Oliver was pretty sure that the younger teen was fully aware how uncomfortable he was making him. He thought of the photo on the fridge again. But he pushed it to the back of his head and stopped himself from glancing back at Carl and asking what his problem was, and Carl finally looked away from him.

"What about your mom?" Sophia asked, smiling despite what she'd just said. Because Oliver had yet to learn that the subject of her own father was one that made her gut wrench on her trachea. But for now, she kept up her façade.

"My mom?" Oliver asked, and Sophia nodded. "Oh," he was mumbling again, "yeah, she's awesome."

Sophia grinned in that empathetic way again. "Mine, too."

There was a pause. Carl was back to narrowing his eyes. Duane had to stop himself from laughing. Oliver looked at him, unsure what he'd found so funny.

"She meant, what does your mom _do,_ " Duane elaborated.

Oliver inwardly palmed his face, again, because _how on earth did he not realise that was what she was talking about?!_ "Oh," he fumbled. "Um. She was a Geography teacher, back home. Now she's working at the middle school. School Councillor."

"Wait, do you have a little brother?" Carl piped up, lifting his head to look at the teen. "Emilio?" Oliver nodded. "Judy," Carl said, "when I pick her up from Kindergarten sometimes. There's usually an Italian lady with a little boy, he..." Carl stopped, paused awkwardly, putting his head back in Sophia's lap. "Looks kinda like you. Eyes and hair and stuff. You're mom seems cool. She talks to me about books, sometimes." Oliver couldn't tell if Carl was kidding or not.

"Do you drive?" Duane asked.

Oliver shook his head, then shrugged, then nodded, "I've got my license. But I don't drive a lot. Haven't since last year." He knew that all three of them had their licences already, too, and that from listening to their conversations before, drove often, despite them being younger than him. Duane by five months. Sophia by one. Carl by ten.

"Really?" Sophia asked. Oliver pursed his lips. "Why not?"

 _Because driving terrifies me,_ Oliver thought. _The idea of running someone's child over is not one I'd like to be responsible for in making a reality. Because there_ _'_ _re so many rules and laws and complicated and terrifying things that I have to remember every moment I'm on the road._

"I don't have a car."

"Guess back home everything was in walking distance, right?" Sophia said.

Oliver nodded, "Or I carpooled with my older brother."

Sophia smiled, going back to playing with Carl's hair. Oliver wondered if the two were going out. _Probably,_ he thought, and Sophia whispered something, and for the first time Carl actually smiled, pulling a face at her. _Yeah. Most likely._

An engine squeaked and rumbled behind them, and the four watched the police car pull into the driveway, _King County Police_ written in bold white on the side of the metallic-dark-gold-coloured vehicle. Oliver saw the silhouette. He was clean shaven, Caucasian, he leant forward and collected something from the passenger seat before leaving the vehicle. Oliver inhaled. Intimidated. Even though he knew he didn't need to be. Just because Carl's dad was a cop didn't mean that he'd be terrifying. But Oliver kept thinking of that one time he stole a joint from Patrick's car. He'd taken it after an argument with him a few days before they moved. He hadn't smoked it, and it was still tucked in his bedroom drawer. Stupid, he knew, but he couldn't help but be afraid that the moment the man set eyes on him he would be able to read his mind. Like some unlimited Police lie detector mind reading device.

 _God, Oliver,_ he told himself. _Get over yourself!_

The man got out of the car. He was in uniform. Brown pants, shirt and boots, with a Stetson hat on, a python revolver holstered on his hip. He had pale skin like his son, curly light brown hair like his daughter, a defined jaw like his mother, and bright blue eyes like all three of them. "Hey, y'all."

"Hi," they said. Oliver pretended to say it, too.

The officer saw him. "Hi there." He had a very distinct Southern accent like Whinny's. Carl's accent wasn't as strong. His father waved, and Oliver read, _"Deputy"_ on his badge, and upon realising he was being addressed, Oliver pressed his lips into something of a smile and waved back.

"This is a friend from school," Sophia said, tossing her thumb. "Oliver."

"I'm Rick," he introduced. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, sir."

"What's that?" Carl asked his father as he headed to the front door, staring at the thing Rick had collected in the car. It was rectangular, and already wrapped with a little pink ribbon.

Rick looked at it proudly. "It's uh, your sister's fourth birthday present. Little toy horse."

"You wrapped it?" Carl asked sceptically.

Rick scrunched up his nose and groaned in relent. "No... Lady at the store did it for me."

Carl very carefully didn't laugh, instead smirked up at the sky and let out a sigh. Rick was who laughed, subtly and quietly; it swelled from the back of his throat similar to a groan of a lion or something, shaking his head at himself as he headed inside his home. The door shut behind him, and Oliver thought about how it'd closed with the same snap and click that Carl must've grown up with.

"Oh," Oliver said suddenly, "I gotta..." The others watched him as he gulped down his lemonade and stood up. "Uh..."

"You okay?" Sophia asked.

He nodded, then nodded again. "Uh, the Florist's only a few blocks away from town, right?" They all nodded, arching their eyebrows or frowning in confusion. "And, town's only a mile or so that way, right?" Oliver pretended that he wasn't suddenly nervous. Growing up in a small town where everyone knew everyone was all Oliver knew about a lifestyle, but being in King County; Uncharted Territory. . . he'd only just realised how hopelessly lost he was.

It was Duane who spoke up first. "Why're you goin' to the Florist?"

"I'm..." Oliver suddenly felt embarrassed. "Well, I've gotta buy flowers."

Duane laughed. "Well _duh._ "

"For my mom," Oliver added, realising it was necessary. "She just told me to get some for the house–I mean, for home."

"That's cool," Duane said.

"Um, I should probably..."

"I should get going, too," Sophia said.

"Ditto." Duane.

Oliver was afraid to ask how the hell he was going to find town again, or the florist, let alone his own freaking house. "Where do you guys live?" he asked Sophia and Duane instead, all awkward and fumbly. Carl was collecting their glasses. He went to the edge of the grass and kicked a few stray stones from the driveway off of the path, and then used his free hand to pull the garbage cans over to the edge of the driveway. Chores.

Duane pointed up the street. "Other side of town."

"That suburb near the playing field," Sophia answered, pointing left out of Carl's home. That was promising. Oliver knew that his house was near the playing field, too. He would find it if he could find the field.

"Right," he said, and didn't realise that he was hunched slightly.

Carl was watching him, and his hand dropped from the trash bin and cupped the three glasses in his other hand. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked, and Oliver nodded, didn't mean to, and he felt stupid for not just saying he had no idea. But Carl smirked, also didn't mean to either, but he sort of couldn't help it. "D'you wanna ride home, Duane?"

"No, dude. I'm taking my time to get back."

"I thought it was family night for you guys," Carl frowned.

"It is..."

Carl grimaced. "Oh."

Duane snickered half heartedly, waved, and walked with Sophia. "Bye."

"Bye, skater boy."

It took Carl a moment longer to ask his next question. . . "Oliver?" Oliver stopped hunching, looked at him, tried not to feel like a fish with a worm dangling in front of his face. "Wanna ride?"

Oliver nodded, said very quietly and quickly. "Thanks, man."

* * *

 **Notes**

Just so you know, I don't agree with the self-put downs Oliver tells himself. And his anxieties aren't supposed to be particularly funny. I understand that anxiety and depression are not things to be made fun of at all, and this is definitely not supposed to come across like that, which, I know none of you have said so, and I hope that I'm writing it okay, I just wanted to get it out there for the record. As the story progresses I'm hoping to address more about it all and why he is feeling like this :) x

Also, MDDeLuca stands for Medical Doctor De Luca. Mr. De Luca doesn't actually have a name so far. Even his surname isn't De Luca, since he actually took Rosa's surname when they married, and since his career was made in that name he hasn't changed it for marketing purposes or something else all grown-uppy that we don't need to care about. So yeah, for now, he's either Mr. De Luca, Oliver's dad, or sir. I kind of like it being unknown, it makes him seem that much less of Oliver's life just like Oliver feels.

Hope you enjoyed x tell me what you thought. The next chapter should be up much sooner x and it's a shorter one :)

As always,

Happy reading xxx : _)_


	3. Part 1: Horvath, King County Florist

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Thank you! Ahhh!

 **DarthGranola** Thank you! It's so much fun for me. I love how relatable a lot of the stuff in this is, especially in later chapers, making it personal is really good for me at the moment, and so this fic is just so awesome to write.

 **Biter two** I love you. Is that okay? Because I do. Like, omgily. I'm so happy you think of Oliver like that. It's kind of been an accident how complex and detailed Oliver is. If I don't write him for a few days or weeks I start to lose his personality, like, it takes that much to know exactly how he'll behave, and I'll go into too much detail about eye contact and kissing and shit like that to make up for it haha but you guys seem to like scenes like that anyway haha Actually, this whole fanfiction Oliver thing has been going on for a year and a few months. Also, get well soon, my good vibes are with you! xxx

Oh! Also, no, full credit to Carol being a Home Ec Teacher goes to **Guest** who commented on the main story a while back xxx

* * *

 _Oliver was fifteen, and he was tied to a tree._

 _It was dark, he knew, but could not see due to the blindfold around his face, and he was cold, stripped of all his clothing other than his underwear and an orange tutu that they other boys in his cabin had made him dress into after stealing it from the cheerleaders squad. Dub-step was blasting in his ears, and he was so afraid that he couldn't even scream. They'd told him not to. They'd told him that if he busted them they were going to kill him, and Oliver believed them because he was fifteen and terrified and alone and miserable._

 _The boys who had done this to him had run away only a few moments ago, and Oliver had been left trembling and crying and tied to the tree trunk, blind and deaf and helpless. He shook his head violently, and the left earphone fell out and hung against his chest, and he shook a little more and the right one fell, too. He could still hear the music, playing too loud, but at least he could hear around him again, and it helped, a little. He still let out a whimper, and threw back his head to try to look under his blindfold. He could see trees, but he couldn't make out enough to make anything substantial of it all._

 _But then something rustled, and Oliver froze. He wanted to ask who was there but his voice stuck in his throat like Velcro. More rustling, and it came closer, footsteps, rushing, closer and closer. His shoulders bunched up, his breath stopped, his heart raced, and he braced himself for the attack... But it never came, and suddenly, Oliver De Luca could see._

 _Blue._

 _It was so bright that it scared him. Tears ran down his face, and Oliver had to look away, riding through his horrific startle, wincing and whimpering and wanting no one else to hurt him._

" _You okay?"_

 _Oliver was crying again, and he shook his head, clamping his eyes._

" _I-I'll get you down." It was a boy. Around Oliver's age. Maybe a little younger. His voice was in that odd stage of almost dropping but not quite there yet. Oliver had never seen him before but he knew he was part of camp from his soccer jersey. He felt the boy untie him, and Oliver was able to grip his shoulders when his hands were unbound, and the boy supported him and let him sit on the ground. Oliver was shaking, and he pushed his back against the tree, his knees up, tucked to his chest, and he wiped his face and looked at the boy who had untied him. He had long, dark brown hair, freckles littering his cheeks that he could just see in the dark, and his eyes were blue and narrowed._ _"_ _Why'd you let them take you out here?" he asked._

 _Oliver frowned._ Let, _he thought,_ I didn't have a choice. _The four boys didn't exactly give him a choice when they smothered his face and dragged him out of his cabin earlier that night. They'd let go of him once they were outside at the edge of the soccer field, but he couldn't turn back. If he did they would only grab him and smother him again. It was already a miracle that he didn't need his inhaler._

" _I was going to the outhouse," the boy said then, and Oliver stopped frowning. "I saw them take you out here, waited, came when they left without you. Rule number... uh, whatever of Soccer Camp;_ _n_ _o camper's left behind, right?"_

 _Oliver gritted his teeth and looked away._ _He knew the boy was trying to cheer him up. But Oliver was in no mood to be cheered up._

" _Okay..." the younger said awkwardly, and sat back, picking weeds. "Well... I still gotta go to the bathroom, so..." He got up, and Oliver didn't look as the younger fourteen year old made his way back through the trees towards the soccer field._

 _So Oliver sat there for a little longer. He could hear the music still playing on the iPod they'd put in his pocket; stolen from some other poor son of a bitch in camp. He didn't know who's it was, and so he didn't hesitate to throw it as hard as he could against the tree opposite him, and it smashed against, thumping and clattering to the earth. He tore the tutu off of himself and stood up, wiping his face again, and with a deep breath, Oliver turned and hobbled back towards the soccer field, his hands covering himself as best he could given his lack of any decent clothing._

 _He'd been in Kentucky for two weeks at soccer camp, six to go. He hated it, and he didn't pretend otherwise. He'd been made to go by his parents. His mother thought it would be good for him. His father, too, whom was also obsessed with soccer; something that'd only been passed down to Patrick because Oliver hated it. He_ played _soccer, and he wasn't bad at it, but he didn't share the same passion as his older brother and father. But Patrick had been to the same soccer camp two years before, and of course, loved it, and so of course so would Oliver. Also, this was one of the only things that his mom and dad actually agreed about, and so, blinded by the rare positivity it created between them compared to the increasing arguments that had only been getting worse lately, Oliver was sent off to Soccer camp._

 _Oliver was hugging himself, and he was panicking at the thought of what he would do when he got back to his cabin. They'd be waiting. They'd taunt him and call him names. Slap and smack him hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to leave a mark. They'd take him back. They'd tie him up again._

 _He thought of the boy..._

 _Oliver tried to think of another option, but came up with none, and so he went to the outhouses. The boy emerged from the one furthest to the left a few moments after Oliver had gotten there, and he froze when they made eye-contact through the darkness. . ._

" _D'you want some clothes?"_

 _Oliver nodded, shivered, hugged himself a little more. So the two boys went back to the younger's cabin on the South side of the camp. Oliver tip-toed behind him, past the sleeping children in the room, and he dressed into the clothes that were provided, which were just pyjamas, but Oliver was grateful no matter how mutely he went about expressing it._

 _They went back outside as not to wake anyone, and the younger climbed up onto the roof. "C'mon. I come up here all the time." He held out his hand, and Oliver took it, and the boy pulled hard, helping him climb, and for a few minutes the two just sat on the roof of the cabin overlooking the soccer field._

" _Two weeks. Pretty sure this's been the most eventful night since I got here so far_ _," he said, and Oliver didn't say anything. "My_ _family_ _'re coming to watch the last game in Au_ _gust_ _._ _Mom, Dad and my lil' sis._ _"_

 _Oliver pursed his lips. He should have said that his own father was coming to see the game, too, but 1. he'd probably turn up late and miss the whole game, and 2. after tonight, he didn't want to talk. He was angry and humiliated and home sick. Not wanting to talk is often a side effect of all of that._

" _I hate them, too," the boy said then. "The guys in your cabin. They mess with me sometimes. But, soccer's fun, and we've got the first game of the season against the Termites tomorrow, might as well do our best."_

 _Oliver hugged his knees and shifted his weight on the asphalt roof. He cared about the game tomorrow about as much as he cared about the worms that wriggled under the earth. There were four big games over the time at Camp. Week two, tomorrow, was against the Termites. Week four was against the Marauders. Week six was against the Wolves. Week Eight, which was the final big game, was against the Walkers._

" _Good luc_ _k_ _," the boy said, "_ _for tomorrow."_

 _Oliver didn't remember what happened for the rest of that night, just that he'd woken up the next morning with a blanket over him and the asphalt dented into his cheek. The soccer game against the Termites sucked. Oliver ended up_ _almost_ _spraining his ankle when half of the opposing team trampled him in an attempt to chase down another mid-fielder. But his team, the Survivors, won, so that_ was _something._

* * *

Oliver: Wait... Where...

Carl: You okay?

Oliver: My cell, I think I left it at your – Oh... No. No I didn't. Never mind.

Carl: Uh... Okay.

* * *

Duane and Sophia had walked home. It turned out that both Sophia's and Oliver's houses were only six doors apart on Grove Street. Like Lorton, it seemed, nothing in King County was very far away from anything. So town was a short drive away, about five minutes by car, and about twenty minutes by foot. When Sophia had explained this to Oliver, he figured it didn't sound like all that much. But experiencing it; the drive was awkward and silent. It felt like a life time. Plus, Oliver didn't like Carl's driving at all. He broke at sudden moments and his speed was inconsistent, either overly-careful or too fast. Oliver would jolt and grip the passenger seat when he got especially nervous, and his whole upper torso rocked forward when the car automatically shifted gear.

The light flashed red, and even though the car was far away, the vehicle jolted and Carl's grip tightened around the wheel, jolting again. Oliver's knuckles were white against the seat.

"Sorry," Carl apologised, speaking for one of the first times now that the car was stopped. Oliver guessed that Carl found it hard to talk while he drove because whenever he did speak the words were spread apart and it took him a few moments to think about what he was saying, trying to concentrate on the road at the same time, and he would lose track of what he _was_ saying and forget about the conversation anyway.

"It's fine," Oliver said, more out of politeness. He supposed it wasn't entirely lying. He wasn't close to throwing up like he often was after Patrick passed his test, so that was something.

Carl let out a breath. "I passed... about a month ago. Failed a few times. Well, more than a few... a lot more." It was supposed to be a joke, but Oliver couldn't smile. Carl looked guilty, but Oliver got the feeling that he wasn't the type of guy to ever confess such a thing. Instead, he pointed to the side pocket in Oliver's door. "Should be some candy in there," he said quietly, "can have some if you want."

Despite how nervous he was, Oliver wasn't about to pass the offer up. So he found the candy, spotting the colourful packeting and splitting it open. Oliver liked M&M's. For some reason the red ones were always his favourite even though he knew it was bias. He offered some to Carl, and the younger took the packet, about to take some out. But the traffic light flipped amber, then green, and Oliver had to tap his arm to get him to notice.

"Ack, sh– _eep_!"

Carl stumbled over his feet, panicking and rushing, and some asshole behind beeped. Carl bit back another curse, his expression tensing and widening, until finally managed, heading towards their destination again.

" _Sheep?_ " Oliver repeated, grimacing.

Carl laughed nervously.

" _Sheep,_ " Oliver said again, and laughed. "Right, of course. You're _that_ kind of cusser."

"Hey, I... _ugh,_ the candy."

Oliver noticed that the M&M's were spilling from their packet, having fallen from Carl's grip, and the two boys scrambled to rescue them, grunting and grabbing at the rainbow scattered and rolling across the car floor, falling into every nook and cranny.

"Agh, get those."

"Got it."

"Can you put them in the glove compartment?"

"Sure, there. Uh... Why do you have denture glue in here?"

"It's my grandmas, _moron,_ " Carl said, and Oliver was about to laugh, but he glanced at the road. . .

"CARL!"

The driver looked, too, realising that the car was veering towards the wrong side of the road. There was an on-coming truck, and it started beeping furiously. "Gyah!" Carl swerved his car back, the tyres screeching, holding back his own scream. Oliver pinned himself to the seat, wide eyed and mouth hanging open in horror as Carl got the car back under control, panting and terrified and trembling.

"Forget the candy and the denture glue!" Oliver yelled. "Just focus on getting to town... Let's _not die_ in the process. Deal?"

"Deal," Carl agreed haggardly, pushing himself to sit up more comfortably, trying to relax his shoulders, but he was heaving his breath, sweat forming over his top lip and forehead, and he only didn't wipe it away because he was afraid of letting go of the steering wheel. "Deal. Yeah, deal."

* * *

They'd passed a funeral home a few minutes ago. "Where are we?"

"The florist is up ahead."

Oliver had never actually been to the local florist before. He wouldn't have even noticed it hadn't Carl pulled up outside of it. Oliver looked out of the window, chewing on an M&M. They were parked in a lay-by. There was a sign beside them. One arm pointing behind them read _'Funeral Home'_ and another directly under it that read, _'King County Town 1km'_ Another arm pointed ahead and read _'Parking Lot, Florist_ , and _Grave Stone Maker ¼km.'_

Oliver pointed, and Carl drove and eventually found the parking lot. They saw the two buildings up ahead, a grassy field behind it with a herd of cattle grazing in the hot Georgian day.

Carl tapped the front windscreen. "There. Florist and the Grave maker." Oliver followed his finger, and saw a small black sign with white formal writing that read, _'Horvath, King County Florist.'_ and another to its left that read, _'_ _B._ _Gravestones.'_

Despite how morbid this area seemed, it was actually kind of beautiful. It was sort of like a grove, the two small buildings were partially covered by trees, and with the window down, Oliver could hear running water coming from somewhere. Wild flowers blanketed the earth along the white picket fences around the parking lot, and everything seemed calm and quiet and simple.

Oliver noticed a girl in the gravestone building, Caucasian, older than him, but not by more than a few years or so. She had long blonde hair tied in a pony tail, a little braid in it that at her knelt angle hung over her shoulder. She wore a simple T-shirt and jeans, with a pale yellow cardigan that looked too big but still suited her. She was in the window polishing a black marble grave stone on display, and once she noticed them, she smiled politely before continuing working. Oliver thought the girl looked out of place amongst all those gravestones. Like... well, like a girl in a room full of gravestones, really.

Oliver looked at Carl, noticed him looking at the girl, didn't mean to smirk. Carl frowned at him, rolling his eyes. "Thanks, man," Oliver said. Carl frowned at him again, but was smiling. But he stopped smiling and pursed his lips instead. "And thanks, you know, for not killing us," Oliver added, and vaguely wondered why talking to Carl had suddenly become a little easier.

"Yeah, it kinda would've messed up the rest of my day."

Oliver grinned, suddenly, a laugh falling between his thin lips and under-bitten jaw. Carl looked away and started up the engine again, and Oliver pushed himself from the his leant position against the door.

"Um. Oliver?"

The teenager stopped mid-step and looked back.

"Should I wait, for you?"

"Oh." Oliver paused. "No, that's okay. I'll walk."

Carl nodded. Oliver wasn't sure, but a small part of him wondered if Carl _wanted_ to wait for him. Carl was still looking at him, and when Oliver glanced at him too they both looked away at the same time. They would have found it funny if they weren't so inexplicably and ridiculously nervous.

"See you."

Oliver nodded.

But neither boy moved.

Neither boy wanted to.

It ended up being in the same time that they finally did. The girl in the window stepped out of the store to sweep the steps. So Oliver turned towards the Florist, and Carl pulled out of the parking spot, going their separate ways.

The bell rang, one of those stereotypical shop bells above the door.

Inside the florist was bright and clean, and the air smelled clear and fresh. The place would be plane had it not been for the colour sprouting from just about every corner of the room. Flowers were everywhere, blue ones, yellow ones, pink ones, purple ones, white ones, red ones, orange ones, multi-coloured ones. They were on the walls, the windows, the small chandelier overhead. Everywhere. But it wasn't crowded, the living and thriving plants were placed and decorated carefully and professionally. Oliver did a full turn around to look at as much as he could. But suddenly stopped when he saw the shop owner.

The hat was what Oliver saw first.

For that was all he _could_ see.

It was cream coloured and was the type of hat that old people wore fishing.

The person was crouched under the counter, which also served as a desk, and had a till on the edge, and on the side of the till was a little picture of a meme that had a photograph of a guilty-looking puppy with a wilted flower hanging from its muzzle, and it said, _"I brought you a flower – but I eated it."_ Oliver wanted to roll his eyes at it, but he didn't, because the man grunted loudly.

"Dammit."

He sounded old and coarse, and he didn't have the same accent as most people in Georgia. His accent was more like Oliver's, articulate, but there was something in the old man's voice that made it obvious he had lived here for a while.

"Where did I put those darn scissors?"

Oliver took a step closer to the counter, wondering if the man knew he was even there. Suddenly a hand popped out from under the desk, pointing and waving.

"I'll be with you in a moment! Jus' gotta... find my... scissors."

Oliver wanted to say that it was fine, because he honestly didn't mind. But the words stuck in his throat again and instead he just sort of nodded, then realised the man couldn't see him, and so went and looked at the flowers instead. He picked out some purple ones, his mom's favourite colour, so he figured they would be fine.

"Damn scissors!"

As Oliver went over to the counter to wait to pay, he could see them. They were on the desk, right in front of the man should he just lift his head and look.

"Um... sir? Uh, Mr... Mr Horvath?"

"That's me," the old man grunted and looked up at him, smiling when he saw his customer. "Hello."

Oliver nodded, then reached forward and retrieved the scissors. "Here."

"Ah! Thank you," Mr. Horvath laughed. "Been looking for these all afternoon."

The plastic around the flowers crinkled in Oliver's hand, and he changed which one to hold it with because the water they'd been sitting in was dripping down his arm. He wiped it on his shirt.

"Ah, Gentiana, huh?" Mr. Horvath said. "You gettin' these for your mother?" For a moment Oliver wondered how he knew that, but he supposed it wasn't hard to guess. He nodded. "Anything special?"

"She just wanted something for the house."

The man took the flowers and started preparing them, and Oliver wiped the wet off on his jeans and then pulled out ten dollars from his backpack. Somehow, he'd successfully avoided any douche bags today. Oliver watched the man remove the plastic wrapping around the bouquet. There was a donation box by the till:

 _Cancer Research_

Oliver ignored it. All of his grandparents had died of Cancer, and he wanted to donate, and he thought about it, but the flowers were ten dollars and that was all he had.

There were some white flowers on the desk beside the Cancer box, in a little pot, and they were small and bunched together like tiny delicate church bells hanging from a string. The man reached for a few of them, noticing Oliver looking at them. "Do you want me to add the Jasmine?"

Oliver wanted to say yes, his mom would like them, he knew, but- "-I only have ten dollars. Enough for the purple ones."

The man paused, thinking, until he smiled and put the Jasmine into the bouquet anyway, spreading it evenly and then re-assembling them all together, cutting the stalks a few inches shorter and then wrapping a grey piece of paper around them. The man picked up three small cards.

"Do you want, _"To Mom,"_ or _"The greatest mom!"_ or _"You're awesome!"_?"

Oliver let out a chuckle through his nose and dipped his head, "Um, it's okay. Thanks though."

Mr. Horvath laughed and put the cards back, nodding his head like he'd just made an important decision. He had a long nose and wrinkles that lined up when he grinned. Somehow, Oliver realised he was fairly comfortable around him, and he watched the old man neaten the flowers. It was only then that Oliver realised how nice they actually looked. He didn't really know much about flowers, but he knew that Mr. Horvath knew what he was doing.

"Alright, so when you get home you wanna cut the stems about an inch shorter and then put a couple teaspoons of sugar and a little white vinegar in if you have any, and be sure to pop a lucky penny in the water. Make them last longer."

Oliver extended his bill, and Mr. Horvath suddenly put his hands up, like he was surrendering, but Oliver knew that there was nothing submissive about his gesture.

"Free of charge."

Oliver's eyes widened, and he was so taken off guard that he stepped back. "Huh?"

The man extended the purple and white bouquet. The fresh, flower smell filled Oliver's nose. "You heard me," Mr. Horvath said expectantly.

Oliver took a cautious step forward, and when the man grinned he took another step, reaching out for the flowers still with the ten dollars in his hand. But the old man jerked them back slightly, out of Oliver's reach. Oliver's stomach barrelled to his throat.

"But I'm gonna give you a proposal."

The teenager's breath left him in what was supposed to be words.

"You seem like an honest kid," Mr. Horvath said factually. "And you say you're a little out o' pocket, right?"

Oliver nodded, still not seeing where the man was getting at.

"Son, I'm offering you a job."

"Oh."

This stumped Oliver. _A job?_ He thought, _at a flower shop?_ It was like the world was trying to find reasons for people to mess with him. But Oliver needed the money, he knew that. He had already applied to the local library but they didn't need the help, and he couldn't think of any other job he could apply for where he wouldn't have to talk to too many people. He could be a dishwasher or waitress at the _King Café,_ but he'd once worked in the local restaurant in Lorton when he was fourteen. He hated it. They yelled at him because he was too thorough with cleaning the cutlery and plates. How on earth you can be _too thorough with cleaning,_ Oliver had no idea. But he was, so they fired him. So Oliver weighed out his options, and after a second that almost became too long, he figured that the only people who went to flower shops were people who wanted flowers for graves or their mother's, and Oliver was pretty sure that those kinds of people didn't want to talk all that much anyway.

"Um. Okay."

"Great! You can start this Saturday."

For a second time that day, Oliver's mind drifted to his father, lingering there and remembering what he'd been asked by him at lunch. He thought of the cabin, and tried to picture himself there with his father, fishing or swimming in the lake or sat talking on the decking. But he couldn't see it. It just wasn't how he and his father worked. In truth, they didn't. They hadn't in years. He knew that the picture would really just be Oliver, sat on the dock reading all day, using the fiction to escape his own unsatisfying reality. Patrick wouldn't be there because he "couldn't make it" and Em's still too small to be near the lake. "We'll fish in a few," his father would probably keep telling him, clicking away on his laptop messaging his sponsors, and his phone would ring and he'd spend an hour talking to a client while they rolled through their emotional turmoil the same way they would for the whole weekend. Oliver knew that it was selfish to want his father's attention all on him rather than on total strangers. But at his age he should be over it. So he'd pretend to believe his dad's promises. "It's fine," he'd say to him, reminding himself not to get his hopes up. Because even when his father wasn't at work, he _was_ still at work. It's part of what tore their family apart. But Oliver had grown to accept it. Or, he'd grown to _pretend_ he had.

Then Mr. Horvath thrust the _free of charge_ Floristry into his arms. The teenager grunted, almost tripping over as the flowers brushed the ends of his nose, and he tried not to worry that the pollen would set off his asthma, and then tried not to worry that working here would give him an asthma attack every day.

Mr. Horvath crossed the room to tend to some Tulips.

"Um, sir. Don't you want a, uh, resume, or something?"

The old man grimaced, waving his hands around his face as if there were a fly buzzing there. "No, son! Just turn up at ten am. I'll get you some forms to fill out, go over health and safety, give you a trial shift. See how you do."

Oliver frowned. "But, I could have a criminal record." Given the fact that the idea of working here wasn't terrible to Oliver, he wasn't sure why he'd said that. Patrick must have been right all these years, there had to be something wrong with him. He sort of froze, and he almost cringed, knowing he'd blown his chances. But Mr. Horvath laughed. Oliver wondered if he was mad. A mad old man running a flower shop asking perfect strangers to work for him and laughing when they asked _almost_ perfectly rational questions.

"Do you?"

Oliver shook his head immediately.

"Great!" Mr. Horvath chirped, grinned. He reminded Oliver of Doc, and he wondered where the other six dwarves could be hiding, maybe under the desk where Oliver found _him,_ furthermore, Oliver tried not to think that _he_ himself was Snow White. Working at a florist was going to be emasculating enough.

The man turned around to rummage through a few papers that were stacked on the counter behind him along the wall. Oliver still had the ten dollars in his hand. He felt like it was staring at him. No, it _was,_ Alexander Hamilton was, with a paper eyebrow cocked and expectancy in his permanent-print gaze. Oliver almost rolled his eyes at it, and the man in front of him was about to turn around, so the teenager slipped the bill into the Cancer Research box before he noticed.

"What's your name, son?"

"Oliver." He probably could have stopped there really. But the teenager kept adding. "De Luca. Um, I just moved. Here. Three months ago."

"Dale Horvath," the old man introduced himself, extending his right hand. Oliver shook it. "Glad to meet you, Oliver."

When he got home, he went straight to his room and finished the email to his father on his laptop. Just like Patrick had, Oliver had found his excuse. . .

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** ** _MDDeLuca_** _ _ **_Psychiatrist  
**__ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:02pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Sorry, Dad. Can't. I'm trying out for a part-time job in town this weekend. Maybe next time. Hope Montana goes well.

* * *

 **Notes**

The whole soccer camp thing will come up soon :)

Termites, Marauders, Wolves, Walkers...? Ah, thank you and you're welcome XD I seriously couldn't think of any good soccer team names, so I figured the show's enemies would do. Haha.

 _I brought you a flower – but I eated it._ I kind of died a little at that x.x

Tell me what you thought. Thank you so much for the support xxx

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	4. Part 1: Miss Peletier

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** THANK YOUUUU

 **DarthGranola** Thank you. Yeah, the soccer thing unfolds slowly, but it'll get there :)

* * *

 **Quick thing before we go ahead. The first** ¾ **of this chapter is mostly about Oliver. It might be boring, but it's pretty important so it's gotta be there x anyway, enjoy x**

* * *

" _How'd Calc go?"_

"Fine. I knew how to spell my name, and I'm pretty sure I got the date right, so, that's gotta count for something."

" _Ollie..."_

"I'm kidding, Penelope. It went okay."

" _So, you're already making friends, huh?"_

He'd mentioned Carl, Duane and Sophia already. "I'm not even sure how."

" _Well,"_ Penelope said through the house phone, (it felt big and clumpy in his hand compared to his cell) _"you didn't manage to break your previous record."_

Compared to three months, the few weeks it took Oliver to make friends with her in the forth grade seemed pretty impressive now. It was his first time being a transfer student back then. He and Penelope got off to a rather odd start, involving blue glue, missing hair brushes, and Five Guys.

Oliver laughed into the phone, for a second he felt like he was with her, sat in her bedroom on the floor rubbing between her pet dog, Bean's, ears. But he wasn't. Bean was in Lorton, probably sat on Drippy's bed watching her paint her nails. Penelope was in New York, in the cafeteria talking both to Oliver and her college friends, whom Oliver had said hello to in the background. And Oliver. _He_ was in King County, sat with his legs crossed on top of the clothes dryer, his free hand quietly strumming one string of his ukulele on his lap. _Jing, jing, jing._ He'd been playing it before Penelope called. He usually played guitar but he'd unpacked an unopened box in the utility room for the first time earlier (because his house was still full of un-opened boxes after the move) and saw the worn old instrument that Patrick had bought him for his twelfth birthday, and he couldn't help his nostalgia.

Rosa walked into the utility room, a washing basket under her arm. She motioned to her middle son, silently asking for his attention. "Hold on a sec," Oliver told Penelope and put the phone to his collarbone. "Mom?"

She motioned to the dryer. Oliver shuffled back slightly, and Rosa proceeded to stuff the wet clothing and blankets into the machine. She pressed the button, and the machine buzzed to life, shaking Oliver on top of it and he half tumbled half clambered off of it.

"Jesus, Mom," Oliver hissed. He could hear Penelope asking what just happened on the line, ignored her. "Did you need something?"  
"Come and talk to me a sec. Hi, Nell!"

They heard her call back through the phone. _"HEY!"_

Rosa took the phone from him. "How are you, _bella_ bambina?" Rosa asked her, and Oliver was frowning because he was still talking to her, and he heard Penelope answer back. Penelope and Rosa had always gotten along well. So for a few minutes they talked about college and Em and only stopped when Rosa asked her to persuade Oliver to get a girlfriend, or to come here and _be_ his girlfriend. Penelope was used to it, but Oliver still found it astoundingly embarrassing.

"Mom!"

She laughed. "Can Oliver and I talk for a minute, please, Nell?"

" _Sure,_ " Oliver heard. _"Tell him to call me back."_

"I'm right here," he said to her.

She blew him a raspberry and hung up. Rosa motioned Oliver to come into the living room to where Emilio was watching cartoons on Mom's iPad, tired and settled enough after supper to sit still for a few hours before bed. She asked where Oliver's cell was. "Uh. It's upstairs. Ran out of battery," Oliver lied, and began absent-mindedly strumming a few verses of _You Are My Sunshine_ into his ukulele, hoping to distract her.

Rosa took a seat on their couch opposite the engrossed four year old, his eyes shining colour from the screen, and she placed on her stomach a book that Oliver had probably read a hundred times before but had only just managed to convince his mother to try it too a few weeks ago. _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn._ She was wearing a pair of thin, brown reading glasses. She'd only gotten them a few years before because she was getting head aches and her eyes were having trouble focussing on things sometimes, so she looked up at him, peering over her spectacles, and Oliver thought about the first paragraph in the very book she was reading where almost the same thing happened with one of the characters.

"I talked to a man today."

Oliver stopped strumming and stared at his mother, wondering where she was going with this, and she looked mischievous. He wasn't sure he liked it, so he folded his arms and leant on the arm of the couch beside his little brother, frowning, running a thumb over a ukulele string. It made a soft scraping noise.

"He's called Ryan," Rosa said, "lives a town away. He's got two little girls."

Oliver's eyes narrowed, and he didn't like the rock that suddenly grew in his gut.

"He's been looking for a babysitter for a while," Rosa said, " _and,_ I suggested you to him."

"Why?" Oliver asked, and he did well not to sound relieved that the conversation hadn't gone where he was thinking. "I don't know anything about looking after little kids."

"You have a little brother."

"Em doesn't count."

"What?"

"He's my brother. I can mess up with him. It doesn't matter if I accidentally forget about his nut allergy."

"Yes it does!"

"Mom, I'm kidding."

"He had to go to hospital, Oliver."

"I didn't know that the Chipotle burito had nuts in it!" Oliver was seventeen at the time, and it was the single most terrifying moment of his life when his two year old brother collapsed to the restaurant floor in anaphylactic shock right in front of him. "And if I remember correctly," he went on, "Em didn't die, did he?"

Rosa glared at him, but chose to move on. "What about Drippy, you baby sat her sometimes?"

"She's fourteen. All I did was play video games."

"It won't be difficult," Rosa encouraged. "The girl you're babysitting is thirteen. The other's fifteen, so you won't have to–"

Oliver started playing the ukulele again, making up the tune as he went along. " _Why cant the older one look after her?_ " he asked, singing the words because being dramatic and immature seemed like the best way to get out of this to him.

"She's got schizophrenia."

Oliver's eyes widened, and the tunes stopped.

"Not severely," Rosa said quickly, filling the silence. "It's more of a quirk."

"Mental illnesses aren't quirks," he said.

"That's a little mean."

"No it's not," Oliver said truthfully, and he put the instrument on the couch, only for Em to pick it up and try to play it, too. "I mean it," Oliver went on, at the same time helping Em play by putting his hands in the right places. Em focussed intently. "It's offensive calling a mental illness a quirk –a little softer, Em– It's like saying that –here, now put your other hand here, man. There. You got it– It's like saying someone's cute for something that hurts." If he'd learnt to appreciate anything from his father's work, then it was how to respect those affected by things they had no control over.

"Alright," Rosa said, "you don't have to be so _pretenzioso._ "

Oliver rolled his eyes, wondering why on earth his mother would volunteer him to look after someone else's children in the fist place. For 1. He could hardly look after his own little sibling sometimes, 2. the only kid in the world that didn't make him nervous _was_ Em, and that was only through being forced to spend so much time together, because 3. with other kids, Oliver felt like a fish in a pool of parana. And 4. "Can't anyway," he said. "I've already got a job."

"You have?"

He nodded, "It's not for sure yet. But I'm gonna have a trial shift on Saturday morning."

"Where?"

Oliver froze. Her bouquet was upstairs in his closet where he'd tossed them before sending his email to his dad. Oliver only realised in that moment that putting flowers in the closet probably wasn't a good idea. So he rushed out of the room. The flowers were only a little withered after their closet experience. But not terribly. So he took them into the kitchen and put them in the vase his mom had left out, filing it with water.

She walked in, smirking, crossing her arms. "Oh. I forgot about those."

Oliver concentrated on cutting the stalks and adding the sugar and white vinegar to the water like Dale had told him. "You got a cent?"

She handed him one from the junk drawer beside him. "Thank you," she grinned at her son, watching him plop it in the water with the bouquet. "So, your job?"

"Florist," Oliver answered, panting slightly.

Rosa's eyebrows climbed up a centimetre, then fell again. "Didn't see that coming. Well done." Oliver smiled awkwardly. "So, no to the babysitting?" she asked.

He twisted his lips to one side and swayed his torso, hands in pockets. "Yeah, I'll do it. What day?"

"Saturday, but it's in the evening. You'll be done with the job trial by then, right?"

"I guess."

Rosa watched him, brow arched. "You sure about this?"

"Mom," Oliver said. "I got this."

She smiled. _"Questo è il mio ragazzo."_

The house phone rang.

"Penelope," Oliver said into it once he'd gone into the utility room, choosing against trying to take a seat on the shaking dryer again like before. "Sorry, I was gonna call back. Mom g–"

" _Oliver?"_ It was a girl's voice, but it failed to use his short name.

"Uh..."

" _It's me, Sophia."_ Oliver lost his tongue. It cowered in his mouth like a spooked animal. _"_ _I tried calling your cell,"_ she said. _"But it went to voice mail... uh, Oliver... you there?"_

"Oh, y-yes," he said. "Um... How did you get my number?"

" _My mom works for the school. She has your details on a file, Oliver Fabiano De Luca. I'm kind of relieved to know that your middle name isn't De."_

"Oliver," Rosa said, and Oliver poked his head into the kitchen. "Supper's ready. Come eat."

He nodded. "Okay, just a minute."

" _Cool though,"_ Sophia went on, _"the whole two worded last name thing. Italian, right?"_

"Yeah," Oliver said, trying to collect his thought-process like marbles falling between a net with holes that're too big. "Uh, what's going on?"

" _Can you give me your email? I still have to send you the ingredients for Home Ec. The email address on your files is under your dad's address. Not yours. I figured you wouldn't want me sharing personal detail with him. Him being such an ass hole and all."_

"Right," Oliver said, and didn't mean to enjoy the agreement so much. "Who is your mom, by the way?" At that, Rosa poked her head back into the hallway. Oliver looked up at her. He could hear Emilio strumming away out of key on his ukelele. The constant _Brang-brang-brang!_ offending Oliver's ears even though he'd never say so.

"Who're you talking to?" Rosa asked.

"Sophia," Oliver said away from the phone.

"A girl?"

He nodded and frowned, and ignored her when she smirked, instead realised he'd missed Sophia's reply to him and was too awkward to ask her to repeat herself again. "Right," he said instead.

" _You still haven't given me the address, Oliver."_

"Oh," Oliver said, and proceeded telling her his email.

" _Wanna_ _come to the mall with me tomorrow after school, Duane, Carl and a few of our friends'll be there?"_

"Can't," Oliver told her. "I said I'd help mom start painting."

" _Painting?"_

"The living room."

" _That's cool."_

Oliver felt like an idiot. Mom would be okay with starting the decorating without him, or just waiting another day. But Oliver's stomach knotted at the thought of going to the mall. There were people and UV lights and crying babies and billboards with people in minimal clothing.

The phone beeped.

"Hey," he said, "I gotta answer that."

" _Okay, see you tomorrow. I think we have IT together for second period."_

"Oh. Yeah," Oliver remembered, smiling, kind of relieved that she was still interested in talking to him again. He'd only run her over with a skateboard eight hours ago. "See you, Sophia."

" _See you."_

He switched lines. "Penelope."

" _Took you long enough."_

"What's up?"

" _Nothing,"_ she said. _"Dark yet over there?"_

Oliver frowned. "Penelope, we're in the same time zone. Still. I'm not exactly sure how many times I'll have to tell you that."

" _Oh, yeah."_

Penelope was studying Creative Writing in NYU, New York. She started her course the Fall before last once she got out of mandatory education in Lorton, (as she was a year older and therefore a grade higher than Oliver) and she would be there for another two years after. She often said it was like a prison, and Oliver would comfort her and tell her that it was character building and that she'd have so much creative juice for writing that she'd have words coming out of her eyeballs.

Georgia and New York seemed so far away that Penelope seemed unable to get her head around the fact that they were still part of the same time zone. Oliver only remembered because he reminded her so much.

He told his mom he would eat later and went upstairs. The new house was small and simple. On the outside, it looked more like a cottage. With other houses each side in a row along the road, and his house had a vine of wisteria over the front wall. It being Spring now, almost the whole wall looked like a fluffy purple rug. There was a cemetery across the street. Oliver had seen the woman who worked there. She had long brown hair that she always wore in a braid over her shoulder, and she had two adult sons who would come and see her sometimes while she worked. They'd give her lunch or just pay a visit. _Gareth,_ Oliver thought one was called. _Alex_ or something was the other. Oliver wasn't sure how he felt living opposite a cemetery. He didn't really believe in ghosts or spirits or anything like that, but he couldn't deny that at night the thought of it all freaked him out. Back in Lorton, when he would sleep with his curtains open to look at the stars and the street and a little of the hills in the distance, he never grew tired of how at home it made him feel. But in King County, he couldn't stand keeping his curtains open after dark. Just looking at the dimming scenery through his window now, the grave stones and the perpetual sadness behind them... it made his skin crawl and his eyes see shapes and figures that weren't really there.

" _What do you see tonight?"_ Penelope's voice drew him from his thoughts, and for a second he wondered what she was talking about. Then, as if she could tell his silent confusion, she said, _"Look up, Ollie."_

He looked up. "Pretty cloudy. How about you?"

" _I'll go see..."_ She took a few moments to walk through her dorm apartment. Her room didn't have a window, so the only way to see the sky was to go outside. _"Nothing,"_ she said. _"Light pollution's still a bitch."_

The two kept looking at their different-same-skies, listening to their quiet breathing and mumbling. A few times Penelope would bid other students goodnight. One name he recognised was Mikey. He and Penelope had gotten off to a bad start last Fall. Often, Oliver's evenings were filled with listening to Penelope's rants about him, _her evil room mate,_ how he'd hit on her and flirt relentlessly. But then one day it stopped, for some reason or another, and now, from what Oliver knew, they spent more time with each other than anyone. Oliver knew they weren't dating though, and their close friendship kind of made Oliver's gut twinge in jealousy, hearing how much fun they sounded like they were having together, though, he would never say so. He knew it was kinder to both her and himself not to.

Oliver slumped on his bed, kicked off his sneakers and reached for his cell, only to realise he didn't have it. _Fucking Mr. Snake._

Oliver's bedroom was extraordinarily simple. Plane. White walls, like the rest of his house right now. The only colour that filled his bedroom was from the patterned green and blue curtains, his blue bed sheets, and the dark red rug on his floor, not to mention the various text books and items he'd brought from home, along with the hundreds of pictures almost covering the wall opposite his bed of his adventures back home with his family and Penelope and a few of her friends who Oliver could never feel quite _enough_ to call his own friends, too. It looked as close to his bedroom back in Lorton that Oliver could manage, and granted, the walls were a different colour and the room was smaller and the scenery was different, it wasn't too unbearable. He felt comfortable in his new bedroom, and he liked it, but it still made him miss home terribly.

" _Oh fuck. It's a star!"_

"Really?" Oliver asked and pretended he hadn't startled.

" _Y... No. It's a plane. Shit on a pissing bastard it was just a mother fucking plane."_

"Jesus," he said. "Who do you hang out with? Your _cussing_ is cussing."

" _Sorry,"_ she said. _"I've been encouraged to use more unnecessary curse words for duologue. Figured it was better practising with you rather than my parents or Drippy."_

Oliver laughed. "That's the assignments you're made to do? Better cussing duologue."

" _Sort of,"_ Penelope said, and he could hear her smile.

* * *

 _It was back in late January. It had taken him all day to get the guts to tell her. His mouth was dry. His stomach twisting like reeds getting yanked from a murky pond. But he'd said it. Told her. They were in her house. Oliver was sat on the floor tapping nervously against his leg. Penelope was at her desk, WordOffice open on her laptop, trying to write, music playing quietly from Spotify, but she wasn't writing anymore._

" _King County?"_

 _Oliver nodded, studying her._

" _Sounds made up," she mumbled, looking back at her laptop and tapping the space bar a few times, deleting it once the type line left the page_ _._

" _That's what Pat said." Actually, Pat had also added,_ "by some middle-aged fat idiot, obsessed with zombie comic books."

 _Penelope sighed, forcing her smile. But it was sad and hurt and riddled with melancholy. She didn't want Oliver to go, they both knew it. But it was the type of thing they didn't talk about._

" _We're going in two weeks," Oliver said. "Same as you going back to college."_

 _They were going in opposite directions. Him to Georgia, her to New York. A whole eight-hundred-and-twenty-two miles of cement and road marks and traffic lights and angry road-ragers between them. They were like two magnets and all the universe wanted to do was to try to pull them apart._

" _I'm sorry," Oliver said._

" _For what?"_

" _I just am." It had always been him and Penelope. Their separation was like a great and ugly crack through their lives. "It sucks. I hate it."_

" _We'll do something special," she said before the pause got too long, too heavy, too sad. Nobody tried as hard to avoid sad things like Penelope Rostenkowski. "You and I."_

 _Oliver nodded, tried not to look like a sulking two year old. But Penelope saw right through her best friend. She pushed herself away from her desk and stood on his feet. Oliver looked up to her, adjusting his arms on his knee caps and pulling a foot back ever-so-slightly to be a little more comfortable. Then Penelope crouched, still with the ends of her toes on the ends of his, carefully balancing her weight enough on her heels not to hurt him, and she placed her palms on his hands, her ginger brow rising for a second in search for something in his expression, and then furrowing when she'd found it. She was wearing her pyjamas, the little pictures of giraffes staring up at the two of them from her thighs. Her pyjama top matched them. She smiled and tapped the back of his hands – her silent way of telling him not to worry about this. About her. About moving. About that something that he hadn't quite figured out yet and that she was too kind to reveal it to him even though she'd figured out that it was his contempt for father a long time ago. She too tried not to look sad. But, like her, Oliver saw right through his best friend._

" _I'm gonna miss you," he'd said._

" _No you won't," she said back, rolling her eyes and pushing a palm against the centre of his chest. She looked to the side like she was bored, pretending that her gut wasn't aching, keeping her hand to his sternum simply to feel his heartbeat under it, to remember it._

" _Yeah," Oliver insisted, "I will."_

 _Penelope rolled her eyes again, tipping forward, and Oliver tipped forward too, meeting their foreheads. It had been a long while since they'd sat (and crouched) together like this. The last time they had was when Oliver's father had just left. Penelope found him in the school library, pretending nothing was wrong, reading the same forgotten sentence over and over. And he cried and cried into her between the Self Help and Horror section._

 _They were close enough now that the intimacy wasn't unusual, but even so, in that moment, sat in her bedroom, her crouched over him, Oliver felt inexplicably peaceful. He let the long ends of her red hair brush against his arms, inhaling._

 _Then Penelope stood up. She held out her hand and Oliver took it, and the two made their way outside into the back yard. The old tree house at the end of the garden was barely standing. Oliver remembered the nights he and Penelope would spend up there in their childhood, counting clouds and making up names for stars. He remembered watching the fireworks from the window cut in the side of the wall, the lights and the noise and the illusion that nothing would ever change. They watched the fireworks every year on Independence day. The tradition only ended the year before, as did going up into the tree house at all as well. He, Penelope, Drippy and a few other friends had all gone up there at the same time for the first time in such a quantity in the poorly built fort's life. It couldn't hold. So, with a series of screams and grunts and curses and snapping branches that sounded like snapping bone but_ thank fucking God it wasn't. . . _the whole flooring fell through. Oliver still felt like laughing when he saw the gaping hole up there._

 _It was dark by then, and Penelope flopped herself into the hammock. Gesturing Oliver to join her. So he did. It was kind of an art how effortlessly Oliver could climb in and out of that thing. It often took Penelope a few tries to do it right if she wanted to join him. But regardless, they were in the hammock together. They usually top and tailed. Oliver would read and Penelope would write. But this time, the intimacy from before seemed to extend in its need for recognition, because they laid side by side, shoulder to shoulder, or, his shoulder slightly squashing her shoulder given the limited width of the fabric bed._

 _They looked up at the sky._

" _Tell me what you see?" Penelope askd, just like she'd always asked._

 _Oliver squinted, "Clouds."_

" _Yeah," she said, trailing, "me too."_

" _Maybe New York has more to see," he said._

" _Only on the ground," Penelope replied. Oliver thought of the city; buildings with TV screens on them, billboards everywhere, neon lights, the people, all rushing and loud and trafficking through the streets. He tried to picture Penelope among them, and he did, but he hated how out of place she looked there. Like a zebra in a field of donkeys. "But if you look up there's nothing," Penelope said, and Oliver turned his head to her, feeling sentimental and childish and sad. "Not even clouds."_

" _The light pollution's that bad?"_

" _At night."_

" _I'd die if I lived somewhere that I couldn't see the sky."_

 _She thumped his ribcage. "You're not helping, Ollie."_

" _What?" he laughed, wincing and wriggling in the hammock. It took a few seconds to stop swinging. "You're not living there forever."_

 _Penelope smiled again, "That's true, I guess."_

" _You'll be back here before you know it."_

" _But everything won't be like it used to."_

" _No," Oliver agreed._

" _Nothing'll ever be like it used to."_

" _No," again._

" _This week'll be our last." Oliver couldn't think of anything to say. He didn't have anything to say. So he didn't say anything at all._ _"_ _And, that's okay. Because we're getting on with our lives. We'll get this semester over. Then we'll have the Summer, and when it's over, you'll be starting college and I'll be going back. We'll have our new friends. And, we'll still see each other, but not as much. And, that's okay. That's growing up. That's real life." It was kinder to both of them not to acknowledge the pain. "We'll be okay."_ _They both had the same mind set; that if they told themselves something enough then maybe it would become true. But it seldom worked._

" _I don't wanna say goodbye," Oliver said suddenly, and he had to bring his hand up to his mouth and blink away the wet in his eyes._

" _You won't have to," Penelope said. "It's not going to be goodbye." Oliver's eyes closed, and he hated how childish he was being. "Hey," Penelope said, "do you know what Peter Pan said?"_

" _No."_

" _He said,_ 'Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting'. _"_

 _Oliver took a long time to speak again. He didn't want to, and he tried not to, but it was bursting from him. "But I am going away... and so are you."_

* * *

Oliver pulled his focus back to present, inhaled. "I had another cool dream last night," he said, and Penelope exhaled through the phone. But Oliver knew she was intrigued. "There were... zombies. _Aaand,_ a load of people, survivors... And a guy."

" _Was he hot?"_

Oliver smirked at the ceiling, letting out an awkward murmuring noise and bringing his legs up into the foetal position. As if it would hide his answer and tell it at the same time without really answering at all. Penelope, like always, read him like a book.

" _Nice._ _"_

"There was another person," Oliver changed subject. "I killed him, crushed his face under my sneaker."

Even over the phone, Oliver could see her frown. _"_ _Ew."_

Oliver snickered, despite being more than terrified while he'd dreamt it.

" _Alright,"_ she said. _"I'll write you some smutty boy-on-boy fanfiction and email it to you,"_ she proposed. _"With zombies and gore and wild-homosexual-sex. Sound good?"_

"Wasn't sending me porn enough?" Oliver laughed, and shook his head incredulously, though, he didn't really refuse the offer. "See you soon, Penelope."

" _Alright_ _,"_ he could hear her grinning. He couldn't help but grin, too.

Oliver had never said it in words, that he was gay, or bisexual, or pan-sexual, or whatever-the-hell-other-endless-spectrums-of-it-all-sexual-he-might-have-been. It was this _muddled something_ about himself that he hadn't verbally confessed to anyone in his whole life. The subject was one that he had never had any kind of ease talking about at all, because, despite knowing that none of it was something to be ashamed of, actually going through the confusion himself was another thing _entirely._ It played out a whole other spectrum that sent him into stupors of thought in the middle of a conversation, kept him up into the night, made him crumple to the floor in the shower crying his eyes out. But Penelope had figured it out, despite never saying so out loud either. The two just understood. Like they could read the internal subtitles of what the other was really thinking even when he or she didn't want them to. It was how they had worked for nine years now.

"Alright," he said, and neither said goodbye.

Oliver had been staring at his ceiling again, both relieved by his blanked mind and frustrated by it, on the brink of falling asleep, on the brink of. . . But his phone _ding!_ ed. It jolted him, snapped him out of his numbness, and he sat up, taking a deep breath, realising that he hadn't changed out of his clothes yet, and he was hungry, because he'd forgotten to go and eat his supper.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 23:33pm  
** **Subject: Reader discretion is advised :)**

Enjoy.  
(File Attachment)

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 5** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 23:34am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Thanks.

* * *

He read it in his bedroom, multitasking between reading and eating his late spaghetti. Penelope wasn't kidding about the content of the short story she'd written him, and so, the talented writer she was, Oliver was engrossed. He was still multitasking, though, now, it was between reading and something else. . .

His review:

* * *

 **Date: May 6** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:02am**

HOLY FUCKING CHRIST.

* * *

Oliver didn't take his skateboard to school today. After his experience yesterday, he chose against it and decided to go on foot. He was running late. There was an old lady walking in front of him, too, and the path they were using was narrow and the traffic was too fast for him to risk passing her. So he was stuck behind her, walking a few meters away, walking too slowly and rolling his eyes at himself for getting annoyed about it.

It was only about ten minutes into the twenty-five minute walk that Oliver realised a car was slowing behind him. He looked around to it and his expression fell when he saw that the driver was Miss. Peletier. Then he froze to the spot when he saw that Sophia was sat in the passenger seat, waving and smiling at him.

He waved back, his hand moving by itself because his brain hadn't caught up to it yet. Confusion consumed him for a moment, and he dropped his hand, watching Miss. Peletier pull up beside him, other cars slowing and passing hers when they could see their way clear to. Oliver stared.

"Wanna ride?"

"What?" Oliver had to read her lips through the window, and Miss. Peletier rolled her eyes at the girl and pressed the button on her side to open it for them to really hear each other. He was still staring.

"D'you want a ride, Oliver?" Sophia asked again, her eyebrows arched. "I mean, technically it's illegal for a teacher to drive a student anywhere, but, Mom usually jus' drops me off a few blocks away from school anyway."

The boy looked at the two, the clogs grinding and working overtime in his brain as he fitted the puzzle pieces together.

"Miss. Peletier's your mom?"

Sophia nodded like she was tired of answering that question. Oliver realised she probably was. "C'mon."

"You sure?" Oliver asked.

"It's no trouble," Miss. Peletier said.

Sophia gestured her head to the car, so Oliver got in, feeling awkward and clumsy as he pushed his backpack onto the seat beside him, quickly closing the door and fastening his seat belt.

* * *

It was lunch break, and Oliver had found the school library. It was a warm, well lit corner that he'd found his refuge in. A desk a few feet to his right, a seat under him, a cheesy educational poster about higher education behind his head, and a window to his left with an overview of the playing field, a game of girls soccer going on down there at the moment that Oliver caught himself stealing glances down at every few minutes or so.

This was his place now.

As he followed the text of his book across the page, losing himself in the imaginations that had been written for him, Oliver De Luca was more comfortable than he ever had been in school before.

"Are you using this?"

His comfort shattered like glass over a priceless painting. Oliver startled. Despite the events of late, Oliver wasn't actually that much of a cluts, but, proving this trait flawed, his book toppled from his grip and slapped against the carpet floor at his foot (his other had been tucked under him and he only just realised it had gone dead when he tried using it). He scrambled to retrieve it and looked up.

"Uh." It was blue eyes. Carl Grimes. "Huh?"

Carl pointed to the computer, his eyes lifting to it too. His hair was so long that his eyelashes bunched up his fringe slightly. "The PC."

"Yeah, sure. You can log me out if you want."

Carl shifted his eyes back to Oliver, and Oliver stared for an uncomfortable moment.

"I-I mean, _I'll_ log myself out," he said. "Sorry." Oliver got up, quickly shifting the mouse to get the screen to light up again. His email was open. Carl got a glimpse of the screen and glanced away again, but he double took, recognising the ID name in Oliver's inbox. "Just, my emails," Oliver said awkwardly, because apparently saying something was a good idea in his mouth's opinion.

"You're emailing Sophia?"

Oliver looked at his screen, noticing too. Earlier he'd checked his emails but Sophia hadn't sent him anything yet. So, now, he opened it. It was the Home Ec ingredients list for the whole of the semester.

* * *

 **From:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 6** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 13:19pm  
** **Subject: Semester Ingredients**

Chocolate Cookies 15/05/2015: (File Attachment)

Casserole 26/05/2015: (File Attachment)

Roasted Pecans 09/06/2015: (File Attachment)

You're welcome, skater boy.  
Ps. Try looking up next time.

* * *

"I swear," Carl said, smiling like he was trying not to. "She's the most organised person I've ever met."

"Yeah," Oliver agreed, replying to her email with, _Thanks. And sorry, I will._ Then turning to Carl awkwardly. "Your girlfriend seems pretty on top of things."

Carl nodded, but then double took, at Oliver this time. Oliver didn't notice. So Carl took a moment to stop himself from grinning in amusement, and something else that he couldn't quite put a finger on. "Sophia's not my girlfriend."

Oliver frowned at him, and closed down the tab, logging out of his school account. "But, yesterday, you were..."

"No." Carl shook his head, taking a chair from the other side of the room and setting it at the desk. "We're jus' friends," he said, typing his school ID and taking a seat. "Have been forever. Well, since she moved here four years ago."

"Why?"

Carl turned to him, his dark eyebrows lifting, that smirk working its way across his lips, though, this time he didn't try to stop it so much.

"I-I mean," Oliver started again, wincing awkwardly, "I mean, what made you so close?" He started talking with his hands then, blinking too much as he tried to explain. "I-I mean, I have a best friend back home. She and I are close." Oliver stopped. He should have stopped a long time ago. "Uh, yeah, so..."  
Carl looked like he regretted asking to sit there in the first place, and though that wasn't really the case, he looked back to his screen for a second. "I guess we just get along."

Oliver nodded and took his seat again by the window, thumbing at his book. He was going to keep reading, or, at least pretend he was, because with Carl being there he felt too... _something_ to focus. He was uncomfortable, but not, but completely. It wasn't a case of black and white with Carl. There was a kind of spectrum of discomfort, and there were other things mixed in that Oliver wasn't sure he was over thinking or not. Like, he liked being around him, despite wanting to pull at his beanie whenever he was. When he looked at his eyes, he wondered what would happen if Carl looked back at him. But then Carl did turn to him, and he did look at Oliver.

"Your parents split, right?"

Oliver nodded, blinked, then had to look away.

"That friend?" Carl went on. "The one back home?"

"Penelope."

"Yeah," Carl said. "Penelope. Bet it helped, having her around."

Oliver shrugged. "I guess." It was an understatement. Words could not express how grateful Oliver was for her after his parents divorced.

Carl nodded, frowning in that same pensive way Judith did. "Sophia's dad and my mom left two months apart last year." There was a pause, and Carl looked down at his hands, then looked back up to Oliver. "It helped, having Sophia around."

Oliver watched Carl's focus drift slightly, and then the teenager turned to his computer, clicking and typing away. He attached a file and sent it to a teacher in school. Some overdue Physics homework.

Oliver wanted to ask what happened to Carl's mother. He knew that _she left_ like he'd so elusively stated yesterday evening. But that could mean anything. From, one day she was gone to Rick had kicked her out. Maybe even that she'd died. But it wasn't his business. If it were Penelope Oliver would pester her until she revealed every detail. But it was Carl Grimes. Someone Oliver hardly knew. But, he was someone Oliver was slowly beginning to realise he _wanted_ to know.

"You're going to the mall later, right?" Oliver asked, interrupting his own thought process.

"Did Sophia tell you?" Carl asked, and Oliver nodded, and it took Carl a few seconds to decide to speak again. "You coming?"

Oliver pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I'm helping paint my living room."

"Oh, right." Carl spun his chair around to Oliver, stood. "That's cool."

Oliver saw him glance at his hands, and he looked down at them, realising that he'd been tapping the outside of his thigh with his fingers. So he stopped.

"I'll see you later."

Oliver nodded, pulling his hand up to wave. "See you."

It wasn't until Carl had left the library, leaving Oliver sat in silence by the window with the girl's soccer game ending now with the team making their way back towards the locker rooms in the gymnasium, that Oliver finally noticed Carl had left his email open, and along with that, he'd left his textbook on the desk.

Oliver took it and was going to simply close the email for him, figuring he'd give the book to Sophia when he next saw her for her to give it back. But something held him from doing so. Something made him stare at the screen for a moment longer than he probably should have. He saw the ID picture. It was a selfie of Carl with Judith, holding her pretty awkwardly but looking pretty ecstatic. Oliver recognised the X-men on the merch shirt Carl was wearing.

Finding his solution, he took out his phone, opened up his email, typed in the ID address and wrote, _Might wanna try not to leave your email open, man. Don't worry though, I closed it. You left your textbook, too. I can give it to Sophia when I next see her?_ Sent it. Instantly, Oliver regretted it. So much he bit his lip. He tossing his phone into his backpack (he'd gotten it back from Mr. Blake that morning) and stood up, his hands tensing beside his hips, then went to the computer and shut it off at the freaking plug and rushed out of the library.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit._

* * *

 **Notes**

I don't know what happened here. This was not how I originally planned it. But meh.

Also, Sophia's username was totally inspired by you, **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** :D

 **Preview: Oliver sees the consequences of his email with a mixture of green paint, Marvin Gaye, and Art** **text books. :)**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	5. Part 1: Good Hands

**Here's another chapter for you today :D**

* * *

It wasn't until later the next evening, while the De Luca's were still painting their living room for the second day in a row that Oliver's phone dinged and buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hand on his jeans. They were old anyway. Lime green paint hardly made a difference in how scruffy they looked. On his cell he saw the notification. _New Email: cjgrimes121314_ He hadn't seen Carl since the library yesterday. Sophia since getting the drive into school. He'd seen Duane in the hallways talking to Ellie. So, now, Oliver cursed.

Rosa muttered in Italian across the living room to watch his language, to which Oliver stopped himself from reminding her to do the same, given that she wasn't even speaking English. "Sorry," he said instead, and then opened his email. . .

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:44pm  
** **Subject: A friend?**

Friend or foe? I'd hate for my email account to have fallen into the wrong hands.

Ps. Thanks Oliver.

Pps. Or should I call you Ollie?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:45pm  
** **Subject: From a Friend**

Yes. From a friend. Though, could you define wrong hands? I've never felt the need to question my own pair. Does tapping my fingers make a difference?

Ps. You can stick with Oliver, thanks.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:49pm  
** **Subject: From a Friend**

Oliver.

Definition of wrong hands is as followed:

1\. Hands with malicious intent  
2\. Hands that do not share  
3\. Hands that share too much  
4\. Hands that are unhygienic  
5\. Hands that do not help  
6\. Hands that make obscene gestures

Finger tapping doesn't reflect a personality. So, you're good.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:50pm  
** **Subject: From a Finger-tapping Friend**

That's oddly specific.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:51pm  
** **Subject: To a finger-tapping friend**

Yes, it has to be specific. That's how effective list-making words. Trust me.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:50pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Are you a reliable source?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:52pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Probably not.

Do you have anything against lists?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:52pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

No, lists are my coping mechanism.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:57pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I asked Judith what her opinion was on your hands –because she is, obviously, the most reliable source out there– and, quoting her exactly, she stated: "Jenny likes your hands."

Judith and Jenny rule the final vote, so, yeah. You're good.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:57pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

That's comforting.

Ps. I still have your textbook.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:58pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Ah, yes. Okay. I kind of really need it, too. Can I come and get it?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:58pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Sure.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 17:59pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I might need your address.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 18:00pm  
** **Subject: From Forgetful Safe Hands**

Right, sorry.

17 Grove Street. Six doors up from Sophia.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 18:02pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Cool, see you.

Ps. I'm trusting you, safe hands.

* * *

"Oliver?"

He looked up from his phone. "Yeah?"

"Are you still painting?"

"Oh," he said, and picked up his paint brush, the paint on the top of the bristles was already starting to dry. "Yeah."

She looked at him oddly. Oliver only just realised that he was grinning, laughing actually. But he stopped, turning back to the white wall that he was supposed to be turning pale green right about now. So he got on that. Em was crouched at the baby gate in the hallway doorway. He was mad that he'd been left out of painting. But he'd already managed to get his hands on a can yesterday when Oliver's back was turned. The little boy stuck his whole left leg in it, jeans and socks and all. Now, with his new ban from the wet living room, he'd only just stopped crying about it and had taken to simply glaring at his family through the bars like a vengeance-driven criminal.

It was fifteen minutes later when the doorbell rang that Oliver suddenly remembered what he'd agreed to before in his email. His mother got to the door before him, and Oliver was scrambling to wipe the paint off of his nose and hands.

"Ah." For some reason, Rosa sounded especially Italian when she greeted people. "Hello, there."

"Hi."

Em whined and grumbled at the teen from behind his mother's leg, like some impatient dog.

"You looking for Oliver?" Carl must have nodded. "Come on in, honey." Oliver could see through the crack in the living room door as his mom let the teenager in. Carl was going to walk past her, but she hugged him. Carl fairly awkwardly stumbled into her. Rosa was a hugger, and pretty petite, and so Carl very carefully didn't stand on her toes. "In here," she said.

"Hey," Oliver said, showing himself. "I'll just go get it."

Carl nodded a little awkwardly, stepping out of the way as Oliver climbed over the baby gate and made his way past the next one on the staircase. His house had to have a lot of baby gates. He grabbed the textbook from inside his backpack, titled on it, in scruffy handwriting, was:

 _ART CLASS, CARL GRIMES, 2014-2015._

When he made his way back into the living room, he wasn't exactly expecting to see Carl and Rosa deep in conversation. Em was whining again, clinging to the baby gate bars and demanding entry. "In! In! In!" But he quietened when Oliver asked him to. Emilio De Luca may have been high spirited, but it didn't make him a total monster.

"How's little Judith?" Rosa asked, and Oliver remembered that she and Carl had met before.

"Judy's at home, doin' fine. Grandma's taking care of her while Dad's at work."

"She and Emilio are only a few months apart right?" Apparently, Em was invited to Judith's birthday party next week. "You're welcome to bring her around for a play date."

"Thanks, she'd like that."

Oliver's mother had always been a good conversation starter. A trait that was not passed on to him. Patrick was good at talking to people, too, but no one could break ice quite as smoothly and effectively as Rosa. There was a pause, and Rosa smiled at the teenager, her paint brush doing short strokes against the wall.

"Your house is great," Carl said, and Oliver smirked, because even he knew that Carl was only being polite.

Rosa waved her hands and shook her head. "It's nothing special yet. But it will be. Took a little longer to get the plumbing done." For two and a half months they had to wait two minutes while the shower ran for the water to turn clear instead of green. "We're gonna get this room done, put some tiles in the kitchen, then we'll focus on our bedrooms. It'll come along."

In truth, the new house was a mess.

Despite having been living in King County for three months now, there were still boxes that hadn't yet been unpacked. The walls that didn't need painting had been left bare, yet to have pictures put up. Out of hope, Oliver had brought Scab's food bowls along, which were now sat in the corner of the utility room optimistically waiting for the day his mother would agree for them to get another cat, or maybe even a dog. But she had yet to cave in to his hints.

Earlier, Penelope had told Oliver that she'd seen Scab loitering around the old house, looking miserable and impatient and just as matted as always. She left it some day old chicken, and was currently in the slow process of trying to coax it to get used to the idea of it being her house that it came to to rely on food until it finally decided to give up and live with Patrick. Though, from what Oliver could tell, it wasn't working. Oliver still felt oddly proud of the mongrel.

But anyway, the new living room was the worst. The carpet was getting replaced, so, now, it was just the floor boards under them that remained. You had to wear shoes otherwise you'd get splinters. It was routine for Em to rush up to them presenting a finger or heel, telling them of his boo-boo, and then for Oliver to spend the next ten minutes wrestling the small child into sitting still through his attempts to needle the splinter out of him. The couch and furniture were covered in plastic at the moment for painting, and the TV was sat in the corner by the window and had yet to be turned on, which was secretly driving Oliver insane.

Only one wall had been completed, the next was spilt into two parts. Rosa's section was messy and uneven, with big circular brush strokes that looked like they were supposed to be hidden pictures of things no one could quite identify. Oliver's section was neat and precise. All his strokes went up and down in straight lines. He did it in sections too, starting from left to right.

"Here," Oliver said, holding out the art book and sparing Carl any more awkwardness.

Rosa read the cover, smiled, "You any good at painting?"

Carl shrugged, pushing the book into his rucksack. Oliver suddenly felt embarrassed, in that way every teenager is of their parents sometimes. His mother may have been a good conversationalist, but it didn't mean that she wasn't nosy. So despite Oliver's attempts to get her eye contact and silently tell her to leave Carl alone, she didn't notice.

"Wanna help us out?" she asked instead.

"Mom," Oliver said. He didn't mean to exchange a look with Carl, but he didn't expect him to actually be smiling.

"No," the younger teen said, "it's cool." Apparently Carl really did think so.

Rosa grinned and found another paint brush for Carl, a smaller one as it was all that was left. So the three got to work, Carl starting on the part of Oliver's section that he hadn't gotten to yet, all of them concentrating. Oliver worried that it would be awkward, but it wasn't too much. The three kept up comfortable and light conversation, going from topic to topic. School. Work. Pets. Books. Mainly Rosa spoke to be honest. Oliver and Carl had been quiet for most of it. But again, it was comfortable, the two of them occasionally chiming in or answering questions if they had something to say. But otherwise just working quietly, sharing their pale green paint, thanking the other when he would nudge the can across to him for better reach.

It was a while before Rosa directly addressed either of them. She had the radio on. It was playing Vance Joyce, Mess is Mine.

"Well, you've definitely got an artist's touch," Rosa said to Carl, gazing at the work he'd done around the edges of the light switch and the baseboard. Perfectly traced. Without tape to keep him in line. Rosa and Oliver had missed those parts on their parts of wall, figuring they'd do them at another time despite it probably being more practical for them to do that part first. But they weren't much of a DIY-paint-the-walls-and-fix-the-plumbing type of family anyway. Hence why it was taking so damned long. "You're a natural," she went on. "Like Clint Eastwood with a paint brush instead of a pistol."

Carl pressed his lips together modestly, trying not to laugh at the odd comparison, and when he turned to them, lowering his _weapon,_ it took Oliver a moment longer than it should have to look away from the small smudge of green that had smeared over Carl's cheek. It made his freckles stand out like fire power.

Oliver wasn't sure how long they carried on painting. Long enough for Rosa to have abandoned her part of the wall at one point when her favourite song came on, Marvin Gaye by Charlie Puth, and she rushed for Em, scooping him up from his glaring place at the baby gate, and she swung him around the room on her hip, dancing and singing along. " _Let's Margin Gaye and get it on! You got that healing that I want! Just like they say it in the song, until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on!_ " She drug both Oliver and Carl into her disco when she caught the two boys staring incredulously between each other at her. At first they refused, but soon they were going along with it, dancing ridiculously, at one point using Em as a kind of daisy chain link to spin around with him.

"I should probably get going," Carl said. They'd stopped dancing some time ago, but the radio was still on full blast, and they'd finished the whole room and had been sat against one of the dry walls quite literally watching paint dry. Carl had shared his left over M&M's between the four of them. Em was still tucked up to his mother, exhausted after so much dancing.

"Sure," Oliver said.

So Carl gathered his things, bidding Rosa a, "See you at Kindergarten," and Em a wave as Oliver held the door open.

"You didn't have to do all that," Oliver said once they'd gotten to the end of his driveway, wincing, his nose crinkling. "Sorry."

Carl glanced at the other's jaw, and Oliver suddenly felt self-conscious of his under-bite. How it stuck out a little more than it should. But Carl smiled, and then he shook his head and shrugged. "It's cool. Your living room needed it."

Oliver laughed and rolled his eyes, and Carl got to his car, placed a hand on the door, but didn't open it. Instead he turned to the older boy, pursing his lips. For a moment, Oliver wondered why he'd followed him out. But Carl didn't seem to mind.

"Thanks for the textbook," Carl said.

"When do you get graded?" Oliver asked.

Carl pressed his lips together. Oliver didn't mean to watch. "Monday. It'll count for forty percent of my final. Ten is written. The other fifty is the final piece that I gotta do in the last two weeks of school."

"Why does Art need to have a written section?"

"I swear, it doesn't make any sense." Carl said, and Oliver bit the inside of his lip, noticing that whenever Carl got particularly passionate about something, his accent got stronger. Like his dad's accent. Or his grandma's. It made Oliver's brain seize for a millisecond. He only realised he hadn't said anything when Carl's chuckling dulled because Oliver hadn't laughed along, too.

Oliver woke himself up. "What're you gonna do it on?"

"Dunno yet..." Carl looked at his feet, frowning. "I'll think of something."

"Well, good luck."

"Yeah," he looked back up at Oliver, forcing his smile. "I'm gonna need it. Mrs. Prescott's kind of a tough crowd."

"How impressive is your circus?"

"See for yourself," Carl said, taking out his textbook and handing it over.

Oliver smiled. In truth, he couldn't stop smiling. Somehow, talking to Carl really wasn't difficult for him. Maybe it was the emails, or the lengthy quiet in which Oliver wanted more and more _to_ talk to him. Or maybe it was because the Carl at his house now was so different from the Carl he knew at school, with his reserved manner and short questions with no conversational intent. Oliver wasn't sure if he had any place to think this, but he had to admit, he liked this Carl. The artist Carl. The witty Carl. The dancing Carl who had _Marvin Gayed and got it on_ better than Oliver had ever thought possible. The Carl with green paint still smeared on his cheek and fire-power-freckles. Eyes that matched in intensity that were looking directly at him. It made Oliver's stomach knot suddenly, and he stopped smiling, dropping his gaze, pushing the blue away as he turned over the page.

 _CREATE._

Oliver looked back to Carl, and the younger teenager grinned in satisfaction. Oliver's eyes dropped to the page, for a second time taking in the word. It wasn't simply written there though. Compared to the scruffy handwriting seen on the front page in its title, this word had been... _created._ The C was water, drawn in a grey spectrum of swirls and ocean foam with a tiny surfer inside its wave, touching the centre of the letter with their hand, water spraying. The R had been glued in with twine. The E and A painted, with City lights shining from under them, leaving shadows in the clouds that had been painted above them on the page. The T was a dried-pressed flower, blooming, the mark through the middle were its two thin leaves, and Oliver recognised the flower as the same one he'd bought his mother yesterday. Gentiana. The E had been sketched in, simply but perfectly, and the D was a sea shell.

"Whoa..."

He turned the page, didn't notice the way Carl hadn't taken his eyes off of him. How the younger boy had been analysing the awe on his expression, and how his eyes, once again, had fallen to his under-bite.

Oliver's focus remained transfixed on the decorated paper. The two pages that were open to him were on Van Gough. It had a simple bio on the man –written in scruffy all-capitol again that somehow kind of worked with the theme of the book. Gough's portrait was glued in the top corner, twine stuck around it and dirt smudged into the paper. On the left page was a photograph of one of Gough's works, the one of the night sky with the swirling blues and blacks, and the glowing yellows and whites of stars. Oliver had seen the painting a hundred times before. So he wasn't paying it any particular attention. It was what was beside it that physically took his very breath away. Because on the left, was Carl's interpretation. It was, like Van Gough's, a land scape. But a different one. A sky scrape instead of houses and chapels, a long highway under it towards the viewer, abandoned cars on the left side of the highway on their way out and totally empty on the right. The sky was the most impressive part. Not yet night, but the last parts of sunset. The colours swirled across the page, greys and greens and browns crowding perfectly behind the City outlines, like the painting was moulding, or corrupting, but beautiful. Apocalyptic, was the word he thought of, but felt too nerdy to utter out loud. Also, Oliver though he recognised the landscape, but before he could ask, he'd turned the next page. It was another artist... and then another... and another... all with the original painters work and then Carl's unique interpretation beside it. Oliver tried not to feel bias, but he was sure he preferred Carl's re-creations more.

Oliver wasn't sure when Carl had leant against his car to wait for him to finish, neither was he sure when the sky turned black over King County, or that he was now sat on the bonnet of Carl's car beside him, looking through the text book that was lit up only from the street lamp overhead.

It was only when Carl looked over at him that the older finally became aware of it all, and he got up quickly, tripping in his rush. Really, Oliver wasn't usually so tragic of a cluts. "Sorry. Uh, these... these're cool. Sorry."

"Thanks," Carl said. "I hope it's enough."

Oliver let out a breath that was supposed to be an incredulous laugh, but he was still a little awe stricken, and he kept having to stop his eyebrows from arching, because Carl wasn't joking. "No," he said, "these're awesome." He stopped himself before he blurted, _An A plus has practically been drawn in here for you,_ or something else equally as embarrassing or sappy. So he just handed the book back to him and made to leave.

"Oliver."

He stopped, abruptly. He was sure it was the first time he had heard Carl say his name. It sent a shock wave through him, like lightning, because he'd said it so purposefully. So surely. So. . .

Oliver turned to him, pulling at his beanie hat, and he noticed the way Carl suddenly looked very different to his usual composed self. Now, he was buzzing, with what, Oliver couldn't tell. All he was aware of was that the boy in front of him was excited for something, like he'd thought of a brilliant master-mind idea that would be the answer to every question he or anyone had ever burdened themselves with. He was bursting with wanting to tell. It took Oliver a moment, but he soon realised that he, himself, was bursting with not knowing.

"Carl."

Oliver had said it the same way Carl had said his name before. Carl inhaled and stood from his leaning, his eyebrows climbing under his fringe, "D'you wanna do somethin'?" he asked, and his voice fell into that Southern drawl passion again, but he brought it back. "Something fun?"

"Something fun?"

Carl grinned. "Something fun."

* * *

 **Notes**

Tell me what you thought xx

 **Preview: A _little brother_ ly love, a budgie, and something fun :D**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	6. Part 1: One Step at a Time

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** You are inspiring. . . Give them a few whatever more chapters, and that **_is_** happening. Swear to God.

 **DarthGranola** Ah! I'm so sorry for not crediting you! **GUYS, MESS IS MINE SONG WAS BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION BY THIS LOVELY GAL! THANK YOU!** And yes, they are! Btw, did that whole "INFGHEIEDICH DXH" translate to anything? haha or did your keyboard yack?

 **RIGGSSIVAN** Haha! #CaliverTrash hahah Ily! Thank you. Only more in the next few. (Especially chapter 8... :D)

 **Marian Angelica** Whatt!? Haha yes! You got it spot on! You're quoting from the main story omfg! Haa, that's amazing. Btw, I totally squealed when you followed and favourited my original story on FictionPress! THANK YOU!

 **Biter two** Thank you. That really means the world to me. And yes, I'm glad you are feeling better! I myself am ill now, ironically. But I'm really glad that you can relate to his confusion. And fuck, well fucking done to coming out to her! And well done to her, too! And yes. Godyesfaceyourself. Face yourself and tell yourself that you are a perfect, awesome, phenomenal, beautiful, bisexual human being! Because you are! Ps. I adore Dale, too. Nobody else could be Oliver's boss, ever. xxx

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 7** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 23:58pm  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Once more. Define 'something fun' to me?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:05am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

There are many ways.  
But one way is as followed:

Step 1. Skip school.  
Step 2. Call in sick **before** 9am.  
Step 3. Wait with Sophia.  
Step 4. I'll come for you.  
Step 5. We'll drive to Atlanta.  
Step 6. Meet everyone else.  
Step 7. Figure out the game plan for food and everything else.  
Step 8. Drive to Quarry.  
Step 9. Camp.  
Step 10. Go home Saturday.

Bonus step: Don't get caught.

Got it?  
… No pressure.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:07am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Sure, no pressure... Aside from, you know, travelling across the State for two days.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:09am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

A day and a half actually. And we are only travelling for a few hours.

You bailing?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:08am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

No. No bailing. I'll be at Sophia's in the morning.

Ps. How is she getting away with this?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:12am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Good.

She's telling her mom that I'm coming to pick you both up for school. She only has home ec on Tuesdays, with you, other than that she doesn't see her mom at all, usually. Plus Carol's gotta go in early tomorrow. It's a big enough school for it not to be suspicious for them not to see each other every day. Don't worry, Sophia's been planning this.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:15am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

KC High isn't all that big, man.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:20am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Don't worry, it'll be fine. Though, there is a catch. In order not to get caught, Sophia, Duane and I have to get back home before the end of Saturday. You too by default, sorry.

:)

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:22am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Sophia told me already. Messaged me before. But that's totally cool I've gotta be home anyway.

Ps. Really? You're a _sheep_ cusser and an _emoji_ emailer?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:23am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

What? Emojis are awesome!

B-)

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:24am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Doooooooooooooooooooooork.

Thanks for the list, by the way. Helped.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:26am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

;)

I'm starting to become aware of how truly fond you are of lists.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:28am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Yes. The specific ones especially. Though, a reliable source recently informed me that specificness was how the most effective list making works anyway, so.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:28am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Sarcasm?

:]

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:29am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

No, I mean it. Can't you tell?

Ps. Stop with the fucking emojis!

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:31am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Hey, sarcasm isn't easy to recognise over email.

Ps. No.

x]

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:32am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

You're just making them up now...

* * *

 **Time: 00:33am**

So, got any more lists floating around in your head?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:37am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Sure. I mean, its only half past midnight.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:38am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Right, sorry. Didn't realise it was so late. Night, man.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:39am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

I was kidding, sarcasm see. Couldn't you tell?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:42am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Alright, smart ass. You win. So, list or no list?

Ps. You're not very good at sarcasm.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:43am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Hey, it took me five whole minutes to come up with that, and yes I'll make a list. What about?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:46am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Subject ^

Take your time.

Ps. And better with the sarcasm.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:49am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

Why, thank you! ^.^

"Something fun."

I'll see what I can do...

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 00:51am  
** **Subject: Something Fun**

I look forward to it.

* * *

Oliver waited up another hour, surfing the net, listening to music and watching TomSka on YouTube. He went into Em's bedroom at one point when he could hear him shuffling too much, and Oliver caught him under his bed, shoving everything he had under there out into the middle of his bedroom. Toys and cutlery and plates that had been missing for weeks, instruments and clothes, even one of Oliver's beanie hats that he'd figured he left at Penelope's house a long time ago.

"Whatcha looking for, man?" Oliver could only see his feet poking out from under the bed, but the little boy pulled them in, hiding. "Whoa... Where'd you go, Em?" Oliver whispered, feigning his search. "Em? Where the hell've you gone?" The little boy giggled, and Oliver crouched down next to the bed. His mother was sleeping so he knew to keep quiet as he seized the little boy's ankles and yanked.

"Ugh, no!" Em squealed stifling his giggles as Oliver grabbed him, struggling and snickering and pretending to wrestle. "Ol-Oliver."

Oliver sat cross legged, and –forever looking up to his older brother– Em mimicked him, sitting cross legged directly opposite. Oliver crossed his arms. Em crossed his arms, too. Oliver frowned. Em frowned, too. Then Oliver pulled his jaw out and gargled. Em thought about the biology, the muscle requirements of it all, and was going to carry them out, but giggled.

"So, what were you looking for?"

Em thought for a second, playing with his hands; a habit that he'd gotten from both Oliver and their mother. "Treasure," Em decided.

"Tell you what," Oliver said seriously, "I'll help you put all of this back, then I'll go get the good treasure... Sound good?" Em narrowed his eyes sceptically, and when Oliver lifted his eyebrows, the little boy agreed, and they shook on it. So Oliver helped put it all back. "Alright, you wait here. I'll go get it."

The treasure was in Oliver's bedroom drawer behind his inhaler stash, where it had always been. He took it and went to head back to Emilio. Only to find the little boy watching him from the door.

"C'mon. We'll go in your–"

"No!"

"Shh. Mom's asleep."

Em looked at her bedroom door and listened, heard nothing, actually sighed with relief. Empathy was Em's speciality, selectively though. People said it was after their father, what with him being a psychiatrist, but Oliver knew that wasn't true. Em got it from Em. The little boy turned to his big brother and pouted. "Can I look at it in here?"

"Em."

" _Pleeeeease_?"

Oliver frowned. _Emilio De Luca,_ he thought, _you're so freaking stubborn._

Em frowned right back. _Oliver De Luca,_ he was probably thinking back, _I've learnt from the best._

"Fine, you little gremlin," Oliver relented, but he was grinning, and Em smiled in satisfaction, letting Oliver lift him over to his bed. He handed the little boy the treasure. It was a small wooden sculpture of a deer. It could've been a dog, or a horse, but no, it was a deer, Oliver knew. Yes, definitely a deer.

"You know who gave me this?" Oliver asked, and Em looked up to him, thumbing at the doe's ear (she only had one now after the other broke off a few years ago) Em knew the answer, of course, but he also loved hearing the story, and so the coffee gold brown sparkled in his eyes, Oliver's mirroring. " _Nonno.,_ " he said. "He made it for me. Four months before he died. You remember what he called it?"

Em nodded, " _Il Nostro... Pickyoli..."_

" _Il Nostro Piccolo Segreto,_ " Oliver corrected, and Emilio repeated it carefully. At four, his Italian was still coming along. But Oliver smiled at his enthusiasm, "You know what that means?"

"Our little secret."

"Yeah, man. So you can't tell. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

Em frowned and shook his head. Emilio was very good at being serious when he needed to be.

"Good," Oliver said, even though it would hardly matter if anyone else did know. At the time _Nonno,_ Oliver's grandfather, had only said that to cheer Oliver up while saying goodbye at the airport. Oliver knew this. But he still held the promise close to his heart. "Because _Nonno_ was awesome. Mad and blind as a bat. But totally awesome."

Em smiled drowsily and curled up in Oliver's lap, rubbing the doe's shoulder against his nose. Oliver tapped his finger's against his little brother's arm, tugging his comforter up to cover him. So Oliver kept talking. Telling for the hundredth time, _The Adventures of Fabiano De Luca._ He was Oliver's favourite grandfather, and thinking of him still left a heavy lump in his chest. But he loved remembering him with Em, despite the two missing meeting each other by two months.

Once Em had fallen asleep again Oliver carried him back to his bedroom, carefully prying _Il Nostro Piccolo Segreto_ from the boy's grasp. Checking his phone, Oliver had no new notifications, but he kept checking every few minutes, and couldn't help but feel disappointed when his notifications box remained empty.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to knocking on his bedroom door. He fell out of his dreams, the same ones as usual, though, this time, Oliver recognised some of the faces, his mind filling them in with the people he was meeting in the new and strange town he had moved to. But it was only a dream, and so he pushed himself up from his bed and murmured at whoever it was, probably his mom, to come in. She did. Went to his window and opened his curtains. Oliver winced, watching Emilio toddle after her, making a bee-line to Oliver and greeting him with a finger up his nose.

"Don't be late for school," Rosa said.

Oliver nodded once he'd swatted Em away, yawning. But he suddenly stopped when he remembered what he was going to be doing today. Though, he remained nonchalant, bidding his mother goodbye, casually informing her that he would be sleeping around Carl's house that night. When she was going to ask something Oliver managed to evade the questions by reminding her to get the student work-sheets from beside the couch where she had left them the day before.

Oliver was pretty sure that they were all going to get caught, actually, he was almost certain. But something drove him to do this; an intense craving to experience it, like he was getting pulled by a current in a river. But he liked it. He liked the rebelliousness of it. The thrill. It wasn't new, this _teenage urge._ But it was certainly new for him to actually _act_ on it.

When his mother left his room, he checked his phone. The battery was dead. So, charging it up again, listening to his mother leave the house and drive Em to Kindergarten and herself to work, he went to his laptop and used that instead; impatient and eager to see if he'd gotten his reply from Carl yet. He did have an email. But it was from his dad:

* * *

 **From:** _ **MDDeLuca_Psychiatrist  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 7:02am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

No problem. Something came up anyway. See you soon, buddy.

* * *

Oliver couldn't help the pang of irritation and disappointment. "I have a name, Dad," he grumbled, opening up a tab and writing a new email to Carl, and he tried to think of something to say that didn't sound like, _I'm kind of dying waiting for your list..._ So he wrote:

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:38am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

What time are you coming to get us?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:41am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

About 8:30AM.

I didn't forget about the list, I'll explain later.

* * *

Oliver had showered and dressed and packed his things around thirty minutes after receiving his last email, and he checked his watch, remembering step two of Carl's list. So he picked up the house phone and dialled school. He was put on hold for a few seconds before someone picked up.

" _King County High School,"_ the woman at the lobby said, _"how can I help you?"_

"Hi," Oliver said, and he kept his voice low and rough, feigning his illness. "I'm a student, calling in sick." It sounded like he'd asked. Oliver had always been a terrible liar. So he coughed. "With a cold."

" _Okay, can I have your name, please?"_ she sounded bored, and Oliver's paranoia told him that she was on to him.

"Oliver... Uh, De Luca."

" _Tutor?"_

"Philip S- uh, Blake."

" _Alright. . ._ _Thank you, I'll pass on the message."_

"Thanks."

She hung up, and Oliver pushed the phone back onto the holder, exhaled awkwardly, but felt the satisfaction of mentally crossing off step two from his list. _Step 3,_ Carl had written to him the night before, _Wait with Sophia._

* * *

Carol answered the door.

Oliver stepped back when it was her silver eyes that locked on to him instead of her daughter's hazel. She didn't smile. But there was something that made it clear to Oliver that he didn't have to worry, though, there was also something else about the silver haired woman that also made it pretty obvious that she was not the kind to be taken advantage of. So, Oliver raised his hand, shook it into something of a wave, felt like an idiot. "Hello, ma'am."

"Hey, Oliver. You catching a ride with Carl, too?" Oliver sucked his lips into his mouth and summoned the lie to nod.

"Yes," Sophia rescued him, emerging around her mother. She held out her hand, and Oliver hesitantly took it when Sophia twitched it at him again, catching Carol's high-browed glance at them both. "Come out to the garden with me, Oliver."

Sophia was odd, Oliver knew. But he was still struggling to adjust to her spontaneity. Carol called to them as they followed through the house, "Make sure you're not late!"

"Okay, Mom!"

The front door closed, and Sophia stopped suddenly in the middle of the dining room. Oliver walked right into the back of her, apologised and stepped back, but Sophia didn't seem to notice. She turned to him, smiling, and Oliver realised that her smile was so familiar because it was almost identical to Carol's. "Where are your things?"

"Behind your driveway, by the shed." Carl had given him instructions.

"Okay, awesome, the camping stuff is in the basement. C'mon, let's get it all before Carl gets here."

"Where's Duane?"

"He messaged me a while ago. Turns out he's already there. Well, in Atlanta at least. His parents are on vacation for a few days so he got off Scott free."

"That's it?"

"We're meeting him there with the others."

"In Atlanta? Or the quarry?"

"Atlanta."

"Did you call into school?" Oliver asked as she led him to the basement.

"Oh, no. I forgot."

"You do that. I'll get the stuff."

"Okay, it's all in my bedroom. First door on the right."

Oliver went down. The Peletier household was, upon first glance, fairly simple and ordinary. It wasn't until Oliver had a real moment to take it all in that he noticed more of it. The home-made chess board on the table. The shoe shelf made of odd pieces of wood; all mis-matched and nailed together. The finger painting of Abraham Lincoln and a macaroni sculpture of Rose Parker marked by their six year old artist. There were knitted ornaments hung up in charismatic places; on the banister, from the lights, on the TV, on the door knobs, on the back of chairs and stuck on the fridge, some reading short bible scriptures that Oliver didn't recognise. The colours around the whole house were mismatched and uncoordinated, unlike his own house, as his mother was rather obsessive with matching patterns and colours and shades. There were Orange and blue cushions on a pale yellow couch. Plaid green curtains against a light lilac wall. Even the dining room table chairs didn't match. Oliver thought it was cool. Odd, but cool.

He found Sophia's room, and like the rest of the house, everything was bright and colourful. There were poem books on her dresser, pictures of her and her mother on the shelves. There were drawings on the walls, actually _on_ the walls, though. Instantly, Oliver recognised the artist: Carl. He imagined the teenager crouched in his best friend's bedroom, pencil in hand and doodling on the wallpaper. Hands and eyes and gremlins and puppies and buildings and patterns and dragons. Lost in his own imagination the same way Penelope would get lost in writing her stories, or the same way Oliver would get lost in his skating and playing guitar.

There was one photo of a man on Sophia's wardrobe, her father, Oliver presumed, even though he didn't seem to resemble her in the slightest. He was smiling, holding a small baby in his arms; the little creature's auburn hair and the hazel eyes that gave Oliver no trouble in recognising. But it had no frame. The photograph had just been left on the surface, wrinkled and scratched with age and neglect. Oliver only saw it because the horse-head paper-weight that was sat on top of it must've fallen over at some point in the last few hours, the absence of dust over it proving the theory. There were other things on the shelf; collections of odd items all in neat piles or stacks. Every rock and feather and shell and dried up flower or leaf were dotted around the room on cupboards and shelves looked like they'd simply been put there for decoration, but again, upon really looking at them, Oliver somehow knew that everything in this entire room –entire house, actually– had a story behind it.

Oliver wanted to know every one of them.  
But he had things to do.

He made two trips to and from the house, collecting an orange duffel bag, a rucksack, and a tent. He could hear Sophia on the phone to the same lady he'd spoken to. "Thanks, Laura," Sophia said, and Oliver figured that being a teacher's child probably got her onto first name basis with most of the faculty.

"Will she tell your mom?" he whispered to her across the room once he'd set the tent down by the door.

Sophia thought for a moment, listening to Laura talk, concentrating. "Laura?" she said, confident and milking her trustworthy trait. Though, still pushing sickness, "could you do me a favour and not tell my mom about this? I don't want her to worry. It's just a head-ache, but she gets so worried about things like that. The moment she finds out someone's sick she gets a little... unpredictable." There was a pause, and Oliver could hear the quiet voice on the other end of the phone, talking into Sophia's ear. She was smiling and nodding. "Okay, thank you. Have a good day... Yes, I'll get better soon. Thank you, ma'am."

Oliver couldn't help but be both impressed and intimidated. He wondered how easily it would be for her to fool him like that. If maybe she had done so to him already...

"HELLO!"

Oliver startled.

"HELLO! SOPH, COME AND EAT!"

His heart froze, and he span around to the back door. "Who is that?" he urged.

"GET OFF YOUR PHONE!"

Sophia laughed. "Beau, my budgie," she said.

"What?"

She waved him over. "Come see."

So he did, following her into the living room. He hadn't noticed before, but sat in the corner of the room, hung up from the ceiling from a silver chain, was a bird's cage. Small and quaint and stereotypical. There were perches on the cage walls, a water and seed dispenser, too, and a sliced up mango attached by a string. In it was a small blue budgerigar watching him enter the room and chirping demandingly, ruffling its feathers and stretching its mouth open as it yawned. "GOOD MORNING, SWEETIE PIE!"

"Good morning to you too, Beau," Sophia greeted. Oliver saw the pinky-brown part of skin at the top of its beak and remembered reading in a book somewhere that female budgie cares (that part of skin) were that colour, and male's cares were blue or purple.

"Hi, Beau," Oliver smiled, tipping forward to look at her. She tweeted and bobbed her head a few times. "She's cool."

"Wanna see something even cooler?" Oliver nodded. So Sophia looked at the bird and blinked a few times, and as if in answer, the bird blinked back, focussing on her intently. "Okay, Beau, wanna say a prayer?" The bird tweeted. "Okay," Sophia said happily, "Prey, Beau."

Then the bird dipped her head. Sophia did the same. Oliver watched in awe.

"Dear Heavenly Father," Sophia started, "please bless us in our travels. Please see to it that our escape goes unnoticed, at least for as long as it takes for us to get back, and that Beau here is well fed and happy, and that we aren't too harshly punished for out rebellion. Amen."

"AMEN!"

Oliver laughed. "I'm not religious or anything but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to prey God helps you with breaking the rules."

Sophia shrugged and smiled. "I have a feeling that he's okay with this one."

"Sure," Oliver laughed.

"Alright," she said, "got everything?" He nodded, and in the same moment, the doorbell rang. For the first time, Sophia suddenly looked nervous. "Oh, jeepers," she inhaled and had to hold it for a few seconds. "He's here."

 _Step 4._ Carl had written to him. _I'll come for you._

"Ready, Oliver?"

"Ready."

* * *

 **Notes**

I felt way too amused by the whole Carol and sick people thing... Reminded me of a certain incident in a prison, something about murdering two people and setting their bodies on fire or something because of a cold... hmm. Yeah. I'd say Sophia was right about the whole _unpredictable_ _,_ thing...

Sophia, just, don't look at the flowers.

Oh, God, I'm a bad person.

I'm aiming to keep these chapters between 3,000 to 5,000 words each, and there should be around 100,000 or so words overall. Not the 200,000 to 300,000 words that the main stories have managed to add up to each so far... Word count is such a tricky thing to keep under control. There's just so many words rolling around in my head! Argh!

Hope you enjoyed this one, tell me what you thought.

 **Preview: The _actual_ start of something fun. The group'll be meeting up in a familiar location, experiencing their first camping trip without their parents. Though, before the partying starts, they all have jobs to do, Oliver's and Carl's just so happens to be a little more eventful than they'd originally planned it to be. . .**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	7. Part 1: Something Fun

**DarthGranola** Haaha! Thank you xx

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** hahahaha!

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 08:39am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Step 5. Drive to Atlanta (now on temporary pause due to forgotten nail polish)

* * *

Oliver looked up to him from his phone, and Carl's eyes caught his through the left side mirror, pocketing his own cell. He tried to hold his lips and face still, so did Oliver, but they couldn't help the awkward grins that broke over their expressions, the dipped heads and giddy chuckles. It turned out, talking with a keyboard was a lot easier than with a mouth and tongue, but Oliver knew this was going to be the best time to end the silence that they had created in the car ever since Sophia had dashed back into her house to collect her belongings (she'd been so focussed on getting the camping things that she'd forgotten her own).

So, Oliver leant forward, his hand resting on the back of the driver's seat. "Half way through the list now, right? Almost?"

"Right," Carl said, and for a second they thought of what else to say. It seemed Carl thought the same thing as Oliver about the keyboard. "Oh," he grunted and pulled out a piece of paper from the dashboard. "Almost forgot. Climb over, man."

Oliver did, and Carl unfolded the paper to unravel its message:

 _1\. GO AT LEAST A STATE AWAY FROM HOME.  
_ _2\. PAINT SOMETHING.  
_ _3\. SAY SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _4\. SAVE A LIFE.  
_ _5\. DO ANYTHING INVOLVING CORN. OR PUDDING.  
_ _6\. PUNCH SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT.  
_ _7\. GET DRUNK.  
_ _8\. STAY UP ALL NIGHT.  
_ _9\. SEE SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _10\. CAMP IN A TENT.  
_ _11\. SURVIVE SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU.  
_ _12\. TAKE A DRUG.  
_ _13\. JUMP OFF A CLIFF.  
_ _14\. SEE A CONCERT.  
_ _15\. S_ _AY SOMETHING IMPORTANT.  
_ _16\. STEAL SOMETHING.  
_ _17\. HAVE A MOVIE MARATHON.  
_ _18\. GO FISHING. (CATCH AT LEAST ONE FISH)  
_ _19\. GET LOST.  
_ _20\. SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF.  
_ _21\. JUMP OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.  
_ _22\. COOK A MEAL._

"That's all I've got so far," Carl said to him.

"Nice capitalisation," Oliver said. "It makes reading it all the more challenging."

"Shut up."

"Your handwriting really is terrible, though," Oliver said, grinning, and Carl shook his head. "So you wrote a bucket list?"

"Sorta." Their heads were almost touching, so Carl pulled back slightly, shrugging. "I guess."

"It's cool." Carl smiled, relieved, and Oliver asked, "So, you haven't done all of this stuff?"

"Like, take drugs and steal stuff?" Carl asked. Oliver nodded even though Carl wasn't looking at him anymore, and Carl paused, thumbing at the steering wheel. "My dad's a cop. I'd never get away with it." He looked over at him and his eyebrow lifted to hide under his hair. "What's your excuse?"

"I've done some stuff on there," Oliver said. "Like number nine and..." He peered at the bucket list. "twelve... Does Ventolin count as a drug?"

Carl's eyes widened, and Oliver pulled out his inhaler. "Oh," Carl laughed. "I-I don't think so."

"I dunno, man..." Oliver mused. "I've had some pretty weird highs on this thing."

"Really?"

"Not intentionally. And it's not very strong," Oliver admitted. "I just get a little shaky, you know?"

"No," Carl said truthfully. Oliver grinned, and so Carl grinned, too, but then stopped. "Hey, I guess technically you can tick number twenty off now."

Oliver checked the list. Then looked up again. "I'm not afraid," he said. "I'm just... weary."

"Excessively weary."

Oliver grinned goofily, said, "Systematically weary," pointing a finger, and Carl grinned for a second too long. Oliver laughed at him, and Carl looked away, still grinning as Oliver added, "Don't suppose you brought any corn or pudding with you?"

Carl bit his lip and murmured something at his lap.

"You have?" Oliver said, incredulous, punching his arm. "Oh my God, you have!"

A laugh fell between Carl's mouth, and he mumbled, "I seriously love corn," and Oliver laughed, and the two glanced up when they heard Sophia's front door snap shut. The car fell quiet. Oliver politely climbed back over the seat to his original place behind Carl. When Sophia climbed into the passenger seat, passing her newly collected backpack over the seats for Oliver to stow beside him amongst the other clutter of belongings, he didn't mean to catch Carl's glance through the side mirror, like before. Only this time Carl looked away quickly. Oliver put his seatbelt on.

"Alright," Sophia said, and started to put her nail polish on, pinching the tiny bottle between her knees and working with her palm on the dashboard. They were purple. The shade closer to pink. "Let's go."

"Step five," Carl said quietly, and glanced at Oliver through the mirror, intentionally this time, "unpaused."

* * *

Oliver hadn't anticipated how three country kids were going to manage travelling to one of the largest cities that most of them had never been to without their parents before. Oliver had come to Atlanta once before, on a trip to the aquarium with Penelope and her family. Carl had come with his parents as a kid, and a few times after for school. Sophia had, too, but she said she had come before that with her mom for a day and a half, though, she didn't say why. Oliver didn't say so, but he saw the sad brimming in her eyes before Carl swooped in and changed the subject with something about time travel.

Oliver was relieved that they didn't need to scribble off number nineteen of the bucket list yet when, after driving for forty minutes along the highway, Atlanta city came into view. The three looked on in awe as the sky scraper became clearer and bigger. Until they were driving at the very foot of it.

Oliver remembered something. Tapped Carl's shoulder. "Sup?"

"That was the painting in your art textbook, right? Atlanta? Your Van Gough interpretation?" He saw Carl's cheeks flush, and Oliver smiled, and in the same moment decided to make them worse by tipping forward and whispering, "Yours was better," into his ear.

* * *

Step 6. Meet everyone else. _Check._

Duane was waiting outside of a cul-de-sac that Carl's cell GPS had accurately led them to. They pounded fists, and Duane led them into the house they'd pulled up outside of. "Who's house is this?" Carl asked.

"Ellie's brother's," Duane said. He'd arrived there yesterday after school. Oliver wasn't sure who Ellie was or how Duane knew her or her brother. He had questions, lots, but he hadn't found enough of his tongue or balls to ask them yet. The place was small and cluttered, with empty pizza boxes and root beer cans all over the place. It reminded Oliver of what Patrick's apartment looked like sometimes. But there was still something about it that seemed neat and in control, like there might have been at least one person who lived here that liked to keep things in order, only, at this point in time, that person was losing.

Then two girls walked into the living room from the kitchen. Oliver recognised them immediately and double took so badly that his beanie almost fell off. Eliza Morals and Ellie Rhee stood before him, who both double took when they saw him, too, as, this, of all places and people in the world, were not the combination any of them had ever predicted. But he forced his smile and finally said his fist words to them, "Good to see you."

They said it back, at the same time.

Eliza was of Latino descent; thin, with tanned skin and dark eyes and wavy hair that matched, and Ellie Rhee was Korean American, pretty tall, dark strait hair and a neon blue fringe that she'd changed colour twice since he'd met her in Home Room back in February.

"So where's your brother?" Sophia asked Ellie.

"Oh, Glenn's at work," she answered. "Maggie, too. Don't worry. They know about camping. Hey, c'mon, we need to figure out what's going on tonight."

Gathering around the table, they all commenced step seven, figuring out the game plan, sorting a pair of people to do a particular set of jobs. About ten or so other teenagers were coming tonight, and most people were bringing their own food and drinks, but since Duane and Carl both had to drive, and Oliver was still supposed to be going to that job trial in the morning, it was only the girls who were able to drink. So, they just took Glenn and Maggie's (which was only a six pack of beer) and left them the bills to pay for it. They had bacon and bread for breakfast in the morning, but they were going to need food for tonight. Which, after an educated vote, was put down to Carl and Oliver.

It was gone 1:00PM before the six of them finally piled into both Carl's and Duane's car. Given Carl's was the one with the most space, Oliver was still squashed between Ellie and a pile of camping gear and belongings. Ellie was against the window, laughing at Eliza and Carl as they bickered over the directions. Sophia and Duane were in his car behind them. But the drive to the quarry didn't last forever, so they endured their squeezed ribs and tangled arms and strangling seat belts. Though, it still wasn't terrible. It wasn't like any other drive. It was better. It was taking place through business studies and Home Room, because it was taking place with Oliver and Sophia and Duane and Ellie and Eliza and Carl, because it was taking place on the way to something different that none of them had ever done on their own before.

* * *

They got to the quarry, accomplishing step eight, at around two in the after noon. The quarry was in a national forest with a Native American name that Oliver wasn't sure he'd pronounced correctly without sounding offensive, and they were at the South-East side of it nearest Interstate 85. The roads were dusty and wound around on what felt like endless loops of heat and sweat and Oliver and Ellie Rhee trying not to touch each other despite their unchangeably close proximity, and they drove up a lot and then suddenly drove downhill again, and then right back up. It made Oliver's gut flip over on itself. But finally, they found the place that the camp was, as there were already a few people there their age or a little older who had been camping the night before. Only a few Oliver recognised by face but not by name. They were in a clearing, the quarry mountains around them, the tall trees and rock cliffs in the distance, and they were all greeted with overly giddy hand shakes and fist bumps and wide smiles, and one girl with glasses had set up four radios and tuned them all to the same station.

In the end, everyone had split sixty dollars between them, and it was currently in Carl's coat pocket. "Chinese?" Carl asked Oliver as they went over their supper plan.

"No," Oliver said. "It's too expensive."

"My brother used to work in a pizza place," Ellie said.

"Yeah, sounds good," Carl glanced at her, and Oliver nodded.

"Know where it is?"

"I've only been there once," she said, currently wrestling to put up the tent.

" _Great,_ " Carl said.

"It's near the interstate, I know that."

"I went to this really great pizza place once," Oliver said, "in Atlanta."

"Okay," Carl said, "where is it?" Oliver chewed his lip, and Carl sighed. "You don't know either, do you?"

"I was a kid. But I remember that the pizza was amazing," Oliver said, and Carl laughed. "If we get lost at least you'll be able to cross off number..."

Carl got out the bucket list and showed it to him. "Nineteen," he said.

Oliver smiled. "You got a pen?" Carl handed him one. "Okay, num-mber twenty-three," Oliver wrote, stretching his sentence as he did, "fi-ind the... pizza pla-ace."

Carl nodded, his lips pressing as he considered something. He looked to the others and saw that they were all focussed on the tent and so sat a little more forward, his voice quiet. "I wanna try and do all of it," he told Oliver. "On the list. And I think you should too, you know, with me, seeing as I did write it because you asked me to."

"I asked you to write a 'something fun' list," Oliver said, and Carl rolled his eyes, though, his dwindling confidence didn't go unnoticed. "Well," Oliver said, suddenly determined, "given the flow of things, I propose that before the end of Summer we both try to carry out everything on this list. Get it all out of our systems."

"Why by the end of Summer?"

"That's when real life starts," Oliver said.

" _Real_ life?"

"Yeah. Real life," Oliver said, nodding like it was obvious. "You know: Career, marriage, family. Debt, health issues... uh... hair loss... obesity. We've got it all to look forward to."

Carl laughed. "I really hope you're being sarcastic again."

Oliver nodded, grinning, tapping the boy's knee with his knuckle. "But really, once summer's up all us seniors have to start getting on with our lives, you know? And, when we do, there's kind of no going back."

"You make it sound like we're dying," Carl said, and Oliver laughed, suddenly feeling like they didn't need a keyboard so much after all.

"We are," Oliver said, his mouth and tongue working just fine, "technically."

"Dark," Carl remarked.

"But true," Oliver said, and Carl agreed by crinkling the corners of his eyes and nodding the littlest bit. "When summer's up," Oliver went on, pausing and remembering a line he'd read in one of his comic books. "No more kid's stuff."

"You sound like my dad."

"Sorry," Oliver said, and Carl smirked. "Don't worry, though. We still have time for kid's stuff," Oliver added. "We just gotta try not to think too much about the sentimentality of it all."

"Sentimentality is an emotion," Carl said. "Not a choice."

The two boys took a moment to just look at each other. Neither smiled or blinked or moved. "So," Oliver said, and he sort of had to look away for a second, "we'll do the bucket list then?"

"Yes," Carl said seriously, "we'll do the bucket list."

The two friends shook on it, and the decision felt like it'd been made in concrete, promised with safe hands and hopeful crooked smiles by blue and brown gazes.

"C'mon, let's go."

* * *

They left camp at 4:30PM. It wasn't until they'd just driven into the city again, driving past the beginnings of tall buildings and squinting as the sun's setting rays shot through the cement jungle, that the car began to slow. . . Oliver sat up from leaning against the window, frowning at the dashboard. The car spluttered, as if in protest to his scrutiny, slowing more. Oliver and Carl froze, and a long moment of disbelief surged between them. Oliver realised what was wrong only when Carl cursed –he said _fire-truck,_ but still.

"We're out of gas?"

Carl nodded.

Oliver sort of coughed. "Why didn't you check it before?"  
"I did," Carl said. "I just thought we could make it."

Oliver bit back his insult, instead frowned at the dashboard some more as Carl indicated and veered to pull into the highway shoulder. When the sad little ford focus rolled to a stop, Carl switched off the engine and fell into silence. Cars sped past, their Doppler effect mocking them.

"Oh God."

Oliver closed his eyes. Carl cursing (sort of) meant that this must have been serious. "I'm pretty sure you didn't write a step for this."

"Oh God," Carl said again.

Oliver bit his lip and laid his palms on the dashboard, as if trying to magically heal the vehicle like the characters did in Final Fantasy. "What're we gonna do?" he asked when it didn't work.

Carl shrugged glumly. "We'll have to go back to the quarry."

"Walk?"

"Or hitch hike."

"I'm _not_ hitch hiking."

Carl turned to him, winced, apparently just as apprehensive. "Consider it number twenty on our bucket list."

Oliver didn't mean to smile a little when Carl said _our_ so causally. "Let me get this straight," he said, bringing his irritation back to focus. "For one, I actually _am_ afraid of hitch hiking." Carl laughed at that. "It's a rational fear. I've seen NCIS!" Oliver defended. "Anyway. Two, we still have to get the food. And three-"

"You really do like lists, huh?"

"Hush." Oliver waved his hands to quieten him, and Carl's brow rose in shock, but he did as he was told. "Three, we're closer to the city than we are to the quarry. We can just buy gas at a station somewhere around here and come back."

"Okay," Carl said, considering.

"Know where we'll find a gas station?" Oliver asked.

"We'll just have to look for one," Carl said. "C'mon."

"Hey," Oliver said quietly, and gestured to Carl's jeans pocket. "Hand me the bucket list?" Carl did, and Oliver scribbled beside _20_. _SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF,_ – _'(that won't result in substantial injury, death or kidnap)._ Then he looked up to Carl and said, "Because hitch hiking most definitely will result in one, two, or all cases. And my mom'd kill me if I died."

* * *

They'd gotten to the nearest gas station, which was actually only a mile or so walk off the highway through a quiet street with an apartment store opposite and a gift shop next to that. It took Oliver a few seconds to realise that Carl hadn't come inside with him. So he turned around, and through the window he recognised Carl's expression; the same one of utter disbelief and panic from when the car died. He heard his, "Oh no," as another man came in through the door.

Oliver went back out, stopped in front of the boy. "What, man?"

Carl's hands were searching his whole body, in every pocket of every thread of clothing he had on him. Then he reached at Oliver, doing the same, and Oliver grunted and pushed him away, laughing, but in that _ohGodohGodohGod!_ kind of way. "Oh God!" Carl was who actually said it out loud though.

"What is your deal?!" Oliver asked, hugging himself self-consciously.

"Oh no," Carl whispered quickly. "Oh no. Oh, _frick._ Where did I...? Ohhh... God."

Oliver straightened out his shirt and didn't mean to grin. He'd never heard Carl so close to cussing. But when he remembered himself his eyes narrowed, vaguely aware that the shop keeper; a teenage girl their age with long blonde hair and a name tag that said _Summer,_ was watching them in both curiosity and worry. He turned back to Carl when he made a nervous whimpering noise.

"You lost the money, didn't you?"

"No," Carl said, looking back to him desperately. "I didn't lose it. I just, uh, didn't bring it with me."

Oliver hissed through his teeth. "We gotta go back to the car and get it. Take _another_ half-hour out of our _fucking_ journey."

"Uh. . . It'll take longer than that."

Oliver turned to him, eyes narrowing more, and a little part of him was enjoying being able to make Carl get a taste of his own medicine. But in this very moment his mind was too focussed on what Carl said. "You put the money in your coat pocket – I saw you do it."

"I know," Carl said bitterly. "I left it at the quarry..."

All of a sudden, Oliver wanted to crumple to the floor and rock there in the foetal position. Just for a moment. Just until he didn't feel like yacking anymore. If the money was at the quarry, they couldn't buy the food, or the gas, which meant that they couldn't drive anywhere, which meant that they couldn't get home tomorrow, which meant that Oliver would miss his job trial and that his mother would totally kill him. And all of that meant that they were definitely _not_ following any plan or list anymore.

"I'm done," Oliver said suddenly, his hand moving to his jacket pocket. "I'm calling my mom."

"No!" Carl barked, and a short scuffle took place as Oliver fought to find her in his contacts, but Carl grabbed it and stuffed it into his pants. "Oliver stop!"

"Give me my cell back..." He was going to do it again, that _talking back_ thing, "dick weed!"

"Call Sophia."

Oliver gritted his teeth. "For one, she-"

"I'm not in the mood for your lists."

"Shut up!" Oliver snapped. "She's in the quarry, so she or anyone up there _won't_ get reception, and I don't know her fucking number!"

The man walked out of the store. He was tall and large with an uneven beard and straggly hair. He looked the two boys up and down, then moved on. Oliver looked back to Carl, panting and hugging himself and really, really wanting his phone back. For a second, he considered reaching into Carl's pants and taking it himself. But he didn't. Carl hadn't actually put the cell into any pockets. It was currently tucked between his underwear and pants, so, no, Oliver did _not_ reach in and take it back.

"Don't call your mom," Carl said.

"What're we gonna do then?"

"Let me message my uncle Jeffrey. He lives not too far from here. He _might_ know what to do, and, he's cool about this stuff."

Oliver frowned, but nodded. So Carl retrieved the cell and let Oliver unlock it, taking it back, touching and tapping the screen, typing out his essay to explain himself. It looked like the final breath just before pressing send. But Oliver saw the dim glow of light against Carl's face suddenly darken. . .

"No."

Oliver inhaled and held onto his own shoulders, bracing himself, not yet accepting what he knew had just happened, but knowing that he had to do something with himself to stop his entire body from really crumpling to the floor.

"No," Carl said again, breathing it. Then he looked up to Oliver. In that moment, all Oliver saw was the startled fourteen year old at soccer camp. "Battery... Battery's dead."

Oliver took back his phone, pocketing the useless piece of technology and wondering why said _revolutionary devises_ were so fucking useless after only a few hours without an electrical outlet! He wanted to get angry at it, but he knew it was his fault. He'd been playing temple run most of the way to the quarry, Ellie watching over his shoulder scoffing when he'd mess up.

"Don't you have your phone?" Oliver asked, and Carl pressed his lips together guiltily. Oliver sighed. "Right," he said. "You left it behind, too."

"Look," Carl said, watching the inner turmoil of his food-retrieving-companion. "I have two dollars and a dime on me. Do you have anything?" Oliver fished into his jeans pockets. "Few quarters," he said, and dropped them into Carl's hand even though he hadn't asked him to. "Great," Carl said. "Two dollars and sixty cents. That's not even enough for some more stupid M&M's."

"You were the one who lost our money, douche!"

"You know, you call me a lot of names," Carl shot back angrily.

Oliver deflated, and he gritted his teeth, guilty. But he wouldn't get himself to apologise. Hated himself for it.

"I didn't lose it," Carl said then, calmer, trailing only a little. "I just... you know... left it."

Oliver sighed and took a seat on the side walk. Carl joined him after a moment. So then the two were sat at the curb in a suburb street in Atlanta. The sky was turning orange, only slightly, the rest of the sky still fairly blue and cloudy, but seeing its foreshadowing of nightfall unsettled Oliver. It made him imagine having to go back to the empty car, the irritable silence that wouldn't leave them alone for hours.

"I guess two sixty's something," Carl said finally.

"Oh God," Oliver mumbled hopelessly, and his head hung between his knee caps, hands throttling his beanie hat. "Oh my God. We're gonna die out here."

"We're not gonna die out here," Carl said, and Oliver became aware of how good at keeping his cool the younger teenager was. "We're not gonna _stay_ out here. I'm not sure I like the idea of sleeping on the streets in Atlanta tonight anyway."

Oliver couldn't help it when his hands tapped the outsides of his thighs when his nerves got the better of him, racking his mind, at the same time trying to fend off his brewing panic attack. He counted his breath and tried to control each exhale and inhale, then brought his hands up to his mouth when he couldn't, biting his fingernails. He caught Carl smirking at him, and so Oliver stopped and looked up. But something about Carl's amusement and coolness, again, settled him, somehow.

"What about biting nails?" Oliver asked embarrassedly, "does that fall into _wrong hands_ territory?"

Carl grinned and shook his head, "Nah. You're still good."

"Why are you so calm?"

Carl shrugged and made himself stop smiling. "I dunno. I just am."

Oliver grimaced and nodded, but didn't admit that he 1. appreciated it, for Carl's sudden lack of fucks to give helped to ease his own nerves, even though, 2. he was actually a little jealous that Carl could keep his cool like this. And 3. he kind of wanted Carl to keep smiling.

"Way I see it," Carl said next, "we're all going through life solving one problem after the other, but people get so caught up thinking about their problems that they don't see how good some things still are around them, you know? L-like now... We're not dead." _Yet,_ Oliver thought, but couldn't help but want to listen, and Carl smiled, like he could tell. . . "So, seeing as we're not dead, we've still got time to figure out the problem."

Oliver sighed. "Figured it out yet?"

"Actually... yes," Carl frowned. Then got up, suddenly, and Oliver stuttered as he watched him march into the store. For a moment _'steal something'_ on the bucket list popped up in his head, and Oliver's eyes widened in panic.

Inside, Carl stopped directly in front of the girl, the counter and till and cheap lip-balm between them. Oliver stayed outside, forcing himself not to run away, his curiosity the only thing stopping him. The girl looked confused at first, her wide eyes staring at the teen in front of her. Carl was handsome, Oliver knew, and he'd heard girls pine over him in the hallways by their lockers to one another, and so he was pretty sure that the girl was also so flustered mostly just because of his appearance. Oliver was only beginning to become vaguely aware of how irritated he felt by this when Carl pointed at him, and Oliver waved weakly to the girl, feeling grubby and tired and goofy.

Nods and words were exchanged between, presumably from the name tag, Summer and the Grimes, until Carl nodded gratefully and made his way out of the store. Summer watched him, leaning over the counter. Oliver frowned at her, then Carl. "What was that all about?" he asked. But Carl walked right past him, so, after a moment of pure befuddlement, Oliver followed, caught Carl's flannel sleeve and pulled on it. "What are we doing?"

"Payphone."

"Does America still have payphones?"

"She said there were some in the Hospital."

"And you know where the hospital is?"

"Yeah," Carl said.

"How?"

"My dad was in a coma there." He didn't say anything else, instead, the answer hung there on the side walk outside the store, left behind as they kept walking further into the city.

* * *

It was getting dark. The boys'd had to circle back on themselves more than a few times, and after a long debate Carl finally agreed to cross _'19. GET LOST'_ off his bucket list, though, it wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he wrote it. "It never is," Oliver told him, and Carl said, "It was fun writing it though," and Oliver said, "It's always that way," and Carl turned to him once they'd gotten across the road and said, "What way?" and Oliver answered, "The preparing, the planning. That bit's always fun. Actually _doing_ it is usually pretty disappointing," and Carl said, "What time is it?"

Oliver checked his wrist watch. "Six-thirty. Little after."

"What!?" Carl shouted. "We've been walking for two hours!"

Oliver shrugged. "The hospitals close. I saw signs a way back. Let's keep walking." So they kept walking. They were on a street. People were going about their evening, shopping or walking, or maybe trying to find a fucking payphone because their cars had run out and they'd forgotten their money. . .

"So, what's an example?"

Oliver looked at him, their shoulders touching when Carl stepped out of the way of a woman who was too busy looking down at her phone to see him. "Example?" Oliver asked, looking away from a tall building in the distance against the dimming sky behind.

"Yeah, of something you've planned but turned out to be disappointing when you did it."

Oliver thought. "Um, trying to cook for myself – that's one."

"Bad cook?"

"Terrible," Oliver answered.

"Same," Carl replied, smiling. "What else?" he asked, and Oliver frowned, and Carl threw his arms up, "What? I'm freakin' bored!"

So Oliver answered. "Okay, um, two... pretty much every conversation with my dad. Three, driving. Four, probably, loosing my virginity. Uh, five..." But he trailed, because Carl had stopped. The moment he realised he had, though, he kept walking. "What?"

"Nothing," Carl said. "I just didn't think you'd, you know..."

Oliver smirked, "Didn't know you were the type to assume so much about a person."

Carl rolled his eyes, and there was an awkward silence as they kept walking, and Carl must have felt the need to fill it. "I haven't, by the way."

Oliver glanced at him, "You ever had a girlfriend?"

"Eliza, actually. That was in tenth grade, but we broke up at the end of last summer."

"She broke up with you," Oliver didn't ask, and Carl frowned. "I uh, heard her talk to Ellie about you," he explained. "She didn't use your name, but, it fits. Now, you know... putting the dots together."

"Did she say why?" Carl asked. Oliver nodded dubiously, and Carl groaned, cheeks darkening. "I was drunk!" he cried. "I didn't mean to throw up on her!"

Oliver laughed, running his hand along a café window, but regretted it immediately when dirt rubbed off on his palm. "Do you still like her?"

Carl scrunched up his nose and shook his head. "No, we were more just friends anyway," he explained, and Oliver looked at him sideways. "I mean, we kissed, fooled around a little. Well, a lot. And, she wanted to... you know... And we were going to, but..."

"But you yacked on her."

" _No._ " Carl rubbed his neck. "Well, yeah. But, it wasn't just that. I just..." He cleared his throat suddenly. "It doesn't matter. It happened. Well, I mean, it didn't... _happen._ It's fine now anyway. Behind us."

Oliver smirked, "Not much of a ladies man then?" he said, and wasn't exactly sure what he meant by it.

Carl smirked, and then, it seemed, he was incapable of resisting the urge to shoot himself down: "Oliver, I have this astounding ability to ruin every chance I get to lose my virginity. It's a curse that I've lived with my whole life."

Oliver laughed. He was about to say something sarcastic, but he stopped in his tracks, recognising something, and his hand came up to point, but caught Carl on the shoulder.

" _Ouch!_ "

Oliver winced, feeling his own knuckle crack. "Sorry," he said, and pointed more carefully. "Look, it's the pizza place."

"What?" Carl looked, too, squinting even though it wasn't sunny anymore. "Wait, _the_ pizza place? From when you were a kid?" Oliver nodded fast. Carl frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Oliver said. He saw the bright yellow and orange sun protectors over the door and windows. The massive _Dominos Pizza_ over the wall across the building. The small parking lot out front. There was an apartment block right behind, and it was dark and looked dirty, like something lurking in the shadows. He hadn't thought about this place in almost five years but seeing it now brought it all back as brutally as a herd of dead.

They both stared at the building, wedged between a tall office and a block of apartments on the other side, too. Along the store front, there were four delivery bikes with square grids on their backs for their cargo. One girl, early twenties with pixie-cut, black, curly hair and dark skin, was currently taking her time to load up her delivery bike. She looked pissed. Mumbling under her breath. Oliver and Carl could hear the cars driving along Interstate 85 even from the several blocks they were away from it. But this street wasn't too busy, so they crossed to the other side, and Oliver ignored Carl's comment about how his dad would kill them for jaywalking.

They could smell the dough and the sauce and the toppings, and Oliver walked right inside. Carl asked what he was doing, but the older was too fuelled on nostalgia to hear him properly. Plus, he hadn't eaten since breakfast, so his stomach was doing most of the motor work anyway. It was the guy at the till that finally stopped Oliver from gazing like a lost dog into the oven, currently flaming, cooking a newly made pizza. The smell made him dizzy.

"What'd you like, son?" Oliver was asked. The guy was large, with dark hair under a chefs hat and a bushy goatee covering his chin and upper lip, and he was wearing a stripy Dominos apron. He looked like he could've been Italian, though, Oliver was pretty sure that this was only because he worked in a pizza shop, which he decided was outrageously racist of him to think in the first place, being half Italian himself.

"Um..." Oliver remembered that they only had two dollars and sixty cents.

"Can we use your phone?" Carl spoke, and Oliver followed his gaze to the back where he could just make out the edge of a wall phone.

"Not unless you buy something," the man said curtly. Oliver wanted to wince, but he swallowed and looked back at the pizza again.

"C'mon, man," Carl said charismatically. "Our car ran out of gas a little while ago, and we accidentally left our money at–"

"No money, no pizza. No pizza, no phone." The man grinned menacingly, leaning forward over the counter. Like his life was already so miserable that any chance to screw someone else's over was what he lived for. "Beat it."

Carl glared at him, holding his tongue. The same couldn't be said about Oliver. . .

"Hey, ass face," he said, as if he'd just as casually called him by his name. He was hungry and tired, and although he hadn't admitted so before, he kind of was really looking forward to camping tonight. "We just spent the last two hours walking across Atlanta to get here. The least you could do is let us call for help."

The man grew. Slowly and almost noticeably, until he suddenly was _really_ noticeable, so much so that both Carl and Oliver stepped back and held their breath. He looked like one of those grow-your-own-dinosaurs you make in cups of water. Oliver realised that raising his voice hadn't been an effective strategy, but he was too stubborn to back down –any more than the step back had done already, that is. Instead, he tried to grow like a grow-your-own, too. But it didn't work so well. He seemed to lack the extra hundred-and-fifty or so pounds that the man had on him.

"GET OUT!"

Turns out he _was_ Italian because he started swearing in the second language that Oliver was fluent in. Oliver started yelling at him right back. Then Carl started yelling, or, rather _"Whoa!"_ ing, trying to calm everything down, until he simply grabbed Oliver's shoulders and dragged him out of the building, apologising to the dinosaur as he went.

He forced Oliver to sit on a fire hydrant a few hundred yards down the street from the pizza place, and the older teenager gripped its sides and kept muttering in Italian. Carl looked like he would've laughed, but he could see the dinosaur still glaring at them through the window... looming. He went away after a few minutes though, stomping back into his cave. So the two teenagers took a few minutes to re-group their thoughts; Oliver sat on the fire hydrant, Carl slumped against it on the ground. His face was scrunched in thought, and Oliver kept glancing down at him, wanting to ask if he was alright, if he was panicking yet, if, after everything, he was getting any closer to losing his cool. But he kept his mouth shut, all the words worn out after all the Italian.

But then Carl stood up, suddenly. He fished what Oliver saw was their bucket list out of his pocket and thrust it into Oliver's chest, then he turned to Dominos. Oliver called out to him, but all Carl said was, "Sixteen. Get ready," over his shoulder.

Oliver watched until Carl had disappeared inside the dinosaur's cave. He imagined him charismatically strolling up to the man, all blue eyed and freckle faced. Maybe he'd get away with buying a can of soda or something, maybe that'd be enough to earn a stupid two second call on the stupid phone.

The girl was still setting up her delivery stuff. She really did look pissed. Oliver thought about what Carl said before he left, and he looked at the bucket list, slowly putting the puzzle pieces together. _Sixteen, sixteen, sixteen. . ._ When he finally did, he choked on his own breath, scrambling to unfold the bucket list.

 _16\. STEAL SOMETHING._

"Oh, shit."

Another employee came out, a red haired boy who looked about fourteen. "Williams!" he called. "You've gotta come get another! Pepperoni."

"I only have twenty-two minutes to deliver these!" she growled back.

"I-I don't make the rules," the kid said. "That's just what the boss is saying."

'Williams' left the keys in the bike's ignition and marched back towards Dominoes, muttering an, "I know, Parsons. It's fine," as she did. Oliver was stood up, and he was clutching the bucket list in his fist, cursing under his breath again.

Then there was yelling.  
"Hey!" The dinosaur. "What're you doing, kid! HEY! HEY!"

Before Oliver had realised what happened, the Dominos door crashed open. The red-headed boy leapt half way across the side walk to dodge it, and the girl jumped back just in time to watch Carl rocket past.

"Sorry!" Carl was wearing a bright blue sun hat on the top of his head, and he had another straw Stetson in his hand, a bag of something in his other hand, but when his own hat almost flew away he dropped the bad to hang on to it. Garlic bread flung itself across the asphalt, and Oliver watched, frozen in witness as Carl fled across the parking places along the side walk. He scrambled over bonnets and weaved past parking meters. "Come on, man!" he yelled at Oliver, and so Oliver was running to him, stuffing their bucket list into his pocket. "RUN!"

The dinosaur crashed out of the store, and he screamed after them. "Get your asses back here!" and he turned to his employees, "Parsons! Williams! Stop them!" But they stood there, laughing, because their boss had tomato sauce all down his front and in his hair, and what looked like flour layering his face, lines beside his eyes where he'd scrunched them up in his fury.

"What did you do!?" Oliver barked, but Carl shoved the Stetson onto his head and grabbed his hand.

"C'MON!" he laughed hysterically, wrenching him to the parked bikes along the side walk. He must've seen the girl leave the ignition in it because he went straight to the bike she was using. The two flung themselves on, and Carl ground the key and started the engine. "Don't fall!"

"Shit!" Oliver barked, and held on to his hat, but then realised that it wouldn't stop him from falling and so he wrapped his arms around the run-away teenager just in time before they were moving, fast, and Oliver tightened his grip, looking over his shoulder to see that the dinosaur was screaming again, stomping after them.

The bike slowed.

"What're you doing?!"

"Red light," Carl replied quickly, panting, panicking, stopping.

"Run it! He's right behind us!"

"It's against the law!"

"Carl!"

"My dad would kill me!"

"You just _stole_ from a pizza shop! _"_

Carl made a noise, the type that a child makes when they get chased up the stairs by their siblings. A noise that Oliver had made on several occasions growing up. A noise that he'd managed to get out of Emilio. But the reason why? A car beeped behind them, and they saw the dinosaur crashing through the traffic. Oliver wondered if it was footsteps he could feel or his own heartbeat. But then he lurched backwards, the only thing keeping him from toppling over the back of the bike being his arms gripping Carl's middle, because the light had changed, and the dinosaur finally gave up his chase, panting in the middle of the street as the boys sped towards Interstate 85.

* * *

 **Notes**

This is so stupid xD

Okay, so I might've gone a few hundred words over the 3,000 to 5,000 words a chapter thing... sorry, only time, though.

(Btw **BloodGutsandCHocolatePudding** , the all capitalisation that Carl always use was heavily inspired by you...)

Did anyone recognise the cameos?

1\. Glenn and Maggie's house, and Ellie being one of Glenn's younger sisters?

2\. Joe/Dan... I'm not really sure, the guy who walked out of the store (abiding by the laws seing as the apocalypse hasn't happened, lucky for him... grr...)

3\. Williams? The girl in Dominoes? I'm gonna say that Tyreese _did_ have a daughter, and that that was her :)

4\. Oh, and Eliza Morales, of course, seeing as she was in season 1 :D

Tell me what you thought xD xx

 **Preview: So... hormones and all... that mixed with copious amounts of beer and pizza and lake water definitely calls for something fun... :D**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	8. Part 1: Jump

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Ha, ugh, bleugh, I don't believe in hoe-shaming xD nah, he's just a confident guy - knows he's got the genetics to pull it off xD haha your astonishing love for that boy never ceases to amaze me. Thank you!

 **Marian Angelica** Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! *squeals uncontrollably even more* Your words are perfect. PerfectperfectPERFECT!

* * *

 _Asthma sucked.  
It always had._

 _Oliver could remember the first asthma attack he'd ever had in kindergarten. He'd been running behind his mom through the play ground, in that way four year olds do when they're trying to keep up with adult-walking-pace. But he couldn't. He got tired and had to stop. He doubled forward onto his knees and couldn't even look up when his mother called to him. A few days later, it happened again, and then by two weeks, he was diagnosed with severe asthma. And now? He was still suffering from it. He'd been playing soccer for around twenty minutes before he needed to take a break. It was practice, though, so it didn't really matter._

 _He'd been sat on the steps outside of the boy's changing room listening to practice take place on the soccer field around the other side of the building; the grunts and the noise of the ball being kicked to other players, the occasional rustle of it getting rocketed into the netting of the goal, coach T-Dog growling at team. T-Dog, aka. Theodore Douglas, was part of the church and was volunteering for the camp soccer team. He was usually quiet and friendly, but when it came to soccer, he shouted like a bull horn. It was awesome. Their pre-game ritual was to gather in a circle with their right hands all connecting in the centre, and T-Dog would pace all the way around them, shouting, "WHAT DID JESUS SAY?!" and the team would shout back, "ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE IF YOU BELIEVE!"_

 _Suddenly, something blew in Oliver's ear.  
_ " _Gyah!"_

 _There was chuckling. Oliver looked around, swatting his own ear. But he stopped when he saw who'd done it, sighing and turning back around, crossing his arms over his knees. It was the boy he'd met last week. The boy who untied him from the tree. Carl. They'd seen each other around since then, inevitably. At first, Carl would wave and say hi, and Oliver would frown and walk away. It was a slow burn; their friendship, but after a while Oliver started sitting at the same table as him, three or four seats apart, and they wouldn't talk, not for a while. Then, within a few days, they'd walk to the soccer meet ups together and put up with cross country side by side, and Carl would stop and wait a few feet away while Oliver took his inhaler and focussed on not dying, and soon the seats between them in the cafeteria lessened to two, then one, and then they were sitting beside each other._

 _Though, Oliver didn't start actually talking to him until yesterday. The two boys had been locked in the shower rooms together by the same boys who'd tied Oliver to the tree. After a while, Oliver thought of an idea to get Carl to climb on his shoulders and shimmy himself out of the high-risen window, and well, such a plan couldn't arise without at least a little bit of vocal expression. It worked, and Carl pulled the chair away from the door, and Oliver figured that it was rude not to start really talking to him a little._

" _Why're you all the way over here?"_

 _Oliver showed his inhaler._

 _Carl smirked, "Because out of everything you could possibly not be very good at, you suck at breathing."_

 _Oliver laughed breathlessly. "Figures, huh?"_

" _Don't worry," Carl said, patting Oliver's shoulder. "It's not so bad."_

" _And why's that?"_

 _Carl smirked, "You get to sit out for a while without people getting suspicious."_

" _Doesn't do much good," Oliver mumbled._

" _Who says?"_

" _My lungs."_

" _Well you're okay now, right?"_

" _I guess."_

" _. . . C'mon then."_

" _Wh... what?"_

 _Carl was determined, and stubborn, and competitive. It both intimidated and enthralled Oliver. He should've stayed in case T-Dog came back. He should have resisted the temptation of peer pressure for longer than the six seconds he held out for, but he didn't. Because soon Oliver was sneaking across campus. Soon the two boys were cutting across the church's graveyard to the YMCA building across the street. Soon they were strolling inside through the left open fire escape like they owned the place (well, Carl was. Oliver was terrified). It was a gymnasium they'd entered. Inside, it was empty of people entirely. But the whole room was full of trampolines; the big rectangular kind for training rather than fun, with those pointless blue mats on the floor around that braced your fall about 1000% less effectively than they should in order to still not let you break every bone in your body if you were to land on them._

" _Hello?"_

" _Shh!" Oliver hissed._

" _What?" Carl asked, climbing onto one of the trampolines. "Nobody's here anyway." Oliver watched worriedly as the younger boy started jumping, leaping over to the next trampoline across. "Come on!"_

" _No," Oliver said, and crossed his arms over his chest._

 _Carl stopped, bouncing a few times until physics stilled him. "Why're you so worried? They can't kill us."_

They probably can, _he thought._

" _Come on, Ol–"  
_ _But he stopped, and both boys snapped their heads around to the door when it opened._

" _Shit," Oliver muttered, watching the woman walk in. She was walking backwards, a group of children following in after her, talking enthusiastically to each other. Then there was a hard yank on Oliver's arm, and he was dragged into a door behind him. Carl shut it carefully and quickly, and he ran into Oliver, pushing him backwards to a narrow staircase, and Oliver half fell up it, scrambling the rest of the way. It was dark at first, but once they'd gotten through the door at the top the light returned, and they crept out. It was one of those open areas for audiences, like watching a Broadway show from the high up pockets in the walls of the building, and if you went to the edge and looked over the brick wall you could see the whole gymnasium._

 _"I saw someone!" a little girl cried._

" _No you didn't," the woman said. "The door was locked."_

 _Oliver and Carl held their breath. Until below, the trampoline training began, and the noise of squealing, laughing, excited children filled the gym. "Okay," Carl said, "I'll admit. This wasn't one of my best ideas."_

" _Damn straight," Oliver said, glaring._

 _Carl shrugged defensively. "It'll be fine. We just might not get back before nobody notices... But it's fine. I'll just say we had to go back to my cabin because you were still... asthmaing."_

 _Oliver didn't want to argue, so he just nodded and sat against the wall, listening to the trampolining taking place below him. He could've done with a good book at least to pass the time, but all he had was an inhaler, and he was only wearing the red and orange team attire with his yellow and black sneakers._

 _Something bounced off the wall next to his face.  
_ _Oliver gasped, dodging out the way reflexively. "Jesus!"_

" _Wanna play catch?" Carl asked._

" _You're kind of really annoying."_

 _Carl frowned. "No," he said. "I'm making the best of a cruddy situation."_

" _Yeah," Oliver said, "and it's that optimism that's so annoying."_

 _Carl threw the ball underarm, and Oliver caught it, rolling it in his hand before tossing it back. "Not so bad, huh?" Carl tested._

 _Oliver rolled his eyes and stood up, and he clapped his hands gently, "Alright, let's do it."_

 _So the two played catch for a few minutes. But it kind of backfired when Oliver threw too hard and the ball bounced off of Carl's shoulder and went flying towards the giant gap, in which if it were to travel through would plummet two stories down to the trampoline training that was still taking place. But Carl scrambled, catching it just in time before it would've busted them._

" _Okay, so, no more catch," they agreed._

 _So it kind of turned into a game of mini soccer. The tennis ball being the soccer ball, Oliver's shoes on the left of the area being his goal and Carl's shoes on the other end being his goal._

" _He's coming up the left field, weighing out his options!" Carl whispered, Oliver coming up behind him. They were both kind of fast-walking instead or running. "He takes the shot! And he sc– Wh- gyugh!"_

 _Oliver had tackled him._

" _H-hey, it's not football!"_

" _It's not soccer either," Oliver said back, stealing the tennis ball in his hand and rushing to Carl's goal. But Carl, the competitive git he was, sprinted for him, grabbing around his middle and pulling him to the floor. Oliver fought, stifling his laughter, his arm reaching up, inches away from Carl's right shoe. But Carl grabbed it, and he scrambled to his knees, about to throw the ball to the other side to cheat his own score, but Oliver threw himself up, grabbing around his shoulders, pinning him to the floor and rushing to sit with a knee on either side of his hips. The ball rolled out of Carl's grip, and they were both panting._

 _Carl laughed, swallowing, and he looked up at Oliver, "Okay... okay, you win."_

 _Oliver had to catch his breath, bracing himself. "I can't breathe."_

 _Carl was smirking, and he brushed his hair back from his face, a little sweaty after their physical exertion, laughing again._

" _What?" Oliver asked breathlessly._

" _Um. You should probably get off of me," Carl suggested, quiet, smiling, "you know, if you want to."_

 _Oliver was aware of the suddenly butterflies that mauled his gut, and he climbed off of his friend, laughing awkwardly, and he stroked his hair down over his temples, sitting back against the wall. Carl propped himself up on his elbows, trying not to smile anymore but failing pretty miserably. So he sat up and moved to sit beside Oliver, shoulder to shoulder, catching their breath._

 _Then the door burst open.  
_ " _What're you boys doing up here?!"_

* * *

O: Hats!

C: WHAT?

O: HATS?!

C: Oh my God!

O: OUT OF EVERYTHING ELSE YOU COULD HAVE WASTED NUMBER SIXTEEN ON, YOU STOLE HATS?!

C: AND A BIKE!

O: HATS?!

* * *

Oliver's arms came up over Carl's shoulders, his hands making a T shape, bashing the tops of his fingers against his palm, and he was gasping, muttering, "Time out, man! Time out!" over and over between his breaths. Carl pulled over, tucking into the side of a mall entrance out of the way of any traffic or pedestrians. He was panting and grinning and gripping the stolen bike's handle bars with white fists.

"We just stole from Dominos Pizza!" is what Carl cried first, then, when Oliver clambered off of the bike, "H-hey, Oliver? You okay? Oh Jeeze! What's wrong?"

Oliver was retching on his own breath, but he nodded he was fine, grabbing for his pocket and pulling out his inhaler. When he'd taken his medication and regained his breath, he sat forward to lean on his knees, looking up to Carl, grimacing. "You're an idiot!"

Carl almost startled. "What did I do?!"

"You dropped the food!" Oliver hissed, yanking off the Stetson hat that Carl had thrust onto his scalp before, and Carl took his own blue sun-hat off, holding it to his chest, looking embarrassed and wind swept, but there was something else, because Carl was grinning, doing his best, like he seemed to always do, to keep his lips and face still. "We came out here to _get_ food," Oliver went on. "Not to dump our car, lose our money, and steal stupid head-wear!"

"And a bike!" There was a pause of panting and head shaking and leaning into knee caps. Until Oliver looked up at Carl, mouth open, still trying to catch his breath. . .

"I... I remember you."

Carl's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I remember you," he said again, and suddenly, Carl's expression dropped. Oliver nodded, swallowed. "Saw the photo on your fridge the other day. I wasn't sure, but, it was at soccer camp. I. . . I remember you." Carl frowned. "Thank you," Oliver said then, drawing about a hundred straws at once this time. "Really. And I'm sorry I never said it back then."

"You hardly said anything."

"I have this thing. Anxiety. I'm supposed to do these weird breathing exercises..." Oliver stopped, looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "Wait you remember me?"

"No. I _don't_ remember the kid dressed in a tutu that I had to untie from a tree. I _don't_ remember the kid I got stalked by outside the outhouses."

"I didn't stalk you!" Oliver hissed. "I needed clothes. And it was the middle of the night. And I couldn't go back to my room or they'd tie me to the tree again!"

Carl was smiling. . . "I know, Oliver."

Oliver frowned, sighing. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Why didn't you?" Carl asked back.

Neither boy needed to answer, not anymore, and so Oliver said, "Well, thanks. Camp sucked, and I didn't wanna be there at all, but –you know– you helped, even if it was a random act of kindness that started it all." Oliver wasn't quite aware of the full extent of that statement until he'd said it. Because it kind of really had _started it all._ "So, um, yeah. Thanks, man."

"Better late than never."

Oliver didn't mean to smile when he saw how badly Carl was fighting his own smile. "What're we gonna do now?" Oliver asked, and Carl really was grinning then, suddenly and broadly. Oliver glared, "What?"

"Oliver... we stole a pizza bike."

Oliver sighed, like he was relenting. "You keep saying that..."

"No. Oliver," Carl interrupted. "We stole a _pizza_ bike... _Pizza?_ " The pieces started slotting together, and Oliver shot his eyes to the two wheeled vehicle, and he couldn't help the grin as it exploded over his face.

"No way."

Carl's hand rested on Oliver's shoulder, and he stood beside him, close, for one moment he bumped the side of his head into Oliver's, their eyebrow bones touching. "Yes way," he said.

* * *

"THEY BROUGHT PIZZA!"

The news spread pretty fast. Eight boxes. Eight pizzas. Fourty-eight slices. Enough for everyone.

"PIZZA!"

So much cheering. Oliver had his hands clamped over his ears. Blocking out the chanting. But he was suddenly lifted off his feet. Him and Carl, he soon realised when the younger's legs knocked into him, and the two teenagers were carried over the crowd of chanting drunk campers.

Oliver saw a girl at the edge of the crowd, laughing and clapping. Recognition nagged at the back of his head. She was Caucasian, older than him but not by more than a few years or so, with long blonde hair tied in a pony tail, a little braid in it that was still hanging over her shoulder. But now, she wore shorts and a vest, though, was still wearing the pale yellow cardigan that looked too big but still suited her. Again, like the first time in the window, she noticed him, and smiled politely. Even now, here, away from the gravestones, Oliver thought the girl looked out of place amongst all those drunk campers.

She waved, and Oliver was suddenly laughing. Carl, too. They could hear Duane and Eliza cheering from somewhere, and when Oliver was flipped onto his front he caught a glimpse of Ellie under him, helping to carry him through the crowd, heard Sophia cheering, "Nice work, skater boy!" and spotted her behind Ellie, but he soon lost sight of them both when he was flipped back over onto his back, wrestling to keep his shirt from being pulled over his chest. Until the floor of hands suddenly stopped under them, and they both fell to the ground.

"C'mon," Carl laughed once they'd both managed to untangle themselves from each other. "Let's get some pizza before they eat it all."

* * *

"Wait." Oliver was aware that Carl'd had a few cans of beer with his pizza. "Aren't you supposed to wait thirty minutes before sw- _Whoa!_ Carl!"

Blue eyes took a running start, and leapt from the cliff. Oliver's mouth fell agape, and he watched as one-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds of Carl Grimes plummeted into the quarry lake.

They'd driven straight past Carl's car on the way back. Carl decided to make another list. Step 1. he and Oliver would drive the pizza bike back to Dominoes early in the morning before it opened, to step 2. leave it outside the parking lot with fifty bucks in the carry-on compartment and a sorry note. Step 3. take off running. Step 4. find a gas station. Step 5. fill the car and go home. Oliver didn't like how many steps had been added between Step 9 and 10 of their original list, but figured that it was the best they could do given the situation.

"Oliver, jump!"

Carl had resurfaced, his pale skin standing out against the black lake and his underwear. Oliver was in his own underwear, too. Through peer pressure, his clothes, bar his T-shirt, had now found their way back in their tent with his friends shed clothing.  
"Come on!" Carl yelled again. "Number thirteen!"

" _OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod._ "

"JUMP!"

Oliver was shivering, even though it wasn't cold, and the rock under his feet was prickly and jagged, and he was still wearing that stupid straw Stetson again. But he knew that none of this was any reason not to leap in after him, and so. . .

He jumped.

Let's get this straight, cannon-balling twenty feet from a quarry cliff into a lake might not sound all that much. But it is, really. Oliver held his breath and plugged his nose the moment he'd become airborne, but the drop was so far that he ran out of air before he'd hit the water, and he was sure he'd somehow defied gravity and was actually falling _up_ instead. But his body came in contact with the lake, and it swallowed him whole.

Cold was the first thing he felt. Then the pressure, in his ears, squeezing around his body, he opened his eyes, saw nothing, but everything, too, spooking himself with shapes in the water that he knew weren't really there. He looked up, watched his air bubbles flutter away, making to the surface without him, and he saw Carl's silhouette, the blurry outline wobbling and coming in and out of visibility against the night sky a few metres above.

Then?

Then Oliver suddenly felt calm; under the water, listening to the muffled music still blasting from the shore a few hundred yards away. He felt the same sempiternity as he did while skateboarding. The same sempiternity that he craved on the nights in his room that he wished for _feeling._ It was beautiful. He felt like Percy Jackson in the first scene of The Lightning Thief movie.

Then Carl swam down to him, grabbed his wrist, yanked, and Oliver suddenly remembered to move his limbs, his hazardous serenity splitting through the middle, and he kicked and pawed, until he broke surface, sucking in air, coughing and spluttering on it.

"Oh my God!" Carl shouted, shaking the water from his hair. "I thought you died!"

"No!" was all Oliver could get out, laughing, too, rushed with adrenaline and still feeling like he was both falling and flying at the same time.

"Oh my God! We did it, Oliver! We jumped!" Carl cried ecstatically, grabbing Oliver's shoulders and kicking his legs to float in front of him. The older teen was still laughing, struggling to keep above the water and still in shock from his plummet. "We did number thirteen!" Carl cheered on. His hair was sticking in drenched clumps against his face, a whole section of it cow licked on the side of his head behind his ear. "We can cross it off our bucket list!" Oliver squinted at him and tried to focus. Something was ringing loudly. Maybe the music, or the water in his ears, or maybe it _was_ Carl. Oliver tried to concentrate, but all he heard was the ringing, high pitched and deafening, managing only to lip-read things like, "OhmyGod!" and, "Wedidit!" and "Numberthirteen!" and. . .

"WHY ARE YOU WHISTLING?" Oliver yelled over him.

Carl burst out laughing, the first parts of it passing his lips, but he did something else at the same time, and before he was fully aware of his own actions he'd pushed himself forward. Oliver startled, jerking away. He would have sunk, too, but his lungs suddenly filled with air, lifting him, and Carl momentarily froze, sinking slightly, and he watched his friend's expression rush from shocked to lost to stunned all at once.

The whistling had stopped. What replaced it was silence. The silence clamped around Oliver's whole body.

"S-sorry."

"It's okay," Oliver said automatically, and shivered, feeling the water's chill, but also aware of the sudden heat that was growing in his chest. Like he'd left a kettle on boil in there or something. He knew he was panting, and he felt like he was trying to fizz right out of himself, and Carl too suddenly seemed high on his own spontaneity. But Oliver wasn't entirely sure what Carl'd tried to do; if it were meant to be just an excited hug or an accident or something more intimate, in fact, neither boy seemed sure.

But Oliver was getting an inkling now, as was Carl, it seemed, because both teenagers could feel the other's anticipation, his thrill, his impulse. It _polluted_ them.

"Sorry," Carl said again, and Oliver knew that he was going to pull away, saw him about to push backwards, but he didn't want him to, and his hand found Carl's forearm, pulled him to him. He felt the way their chests expanded and retracted against each other's, the way their foreheads touched, the way Carl's hands came up and held Oliver's nape. . .

The two stared.  
Stared and stared and stared.

When one's chin would tip up the other's would draw back, and Oliver could feel Carl's breath, his own leaving him, too. Each warm and fast and short pant that puffed against his cheeks would bring with it a soft hum from the imaginary violin in Oliver's head. He could hear it. He could feel the music brewing inside him. Their noses touched, and a piano joined. Touching the note in rhythm with the violin. Their eyes were so close that he could feel him blink, and they were looking through the darkness that broke up each other's watery features like looking into white-noise for too long, wanting to touch. . . but afraid of what would happen when they did.

Oliver couldn't tell if Carl was shivering or nodding. Everything was getting too deep, too intense, eyes locked and flickering, and Oliver was faltering, moving back. But Carl's hand came up, touched Oliver's jaw, at first jutting it away like it'd scolded him, but then pressing there, pulling, and then. . .

Carl kissed him, and Oliver kissed him back.

It was a whole orchestra now. It exploded in Oliver's mind. It was so loud and real and flawless that he didn't believe that nobody else could hear it, too. The sounds came and merged and swirled together like they were water, moving carelessly and effortlessly but carefully and perfectly. Oliver had never been into orchestra music much. Not substantially at least. He enjoyed it if he was doing a class project on it. But he'd usually opt for Ed Sheeran or Noah and the Whale in his own time. He remembered going with his mom and brother and dad to an orchestra once when he was fourteen. Mom was pregnant, and it was her birthday, and so that was how they spent it. At the orchestra. But something happened to Oliver while he was sat in that cushion-chair on the seventh row back nine seats to the right. The music cast a spell on him. Hypnotised him. Every tick and strum and chime and croon. Every sound. It gave him that feeling you get right before crying.

That was how he felt now.

Oliver thought about the way lips could come together so awkwardly and finely all at the same time. He thought about the way he wasn't sure if he was breathing air or breathing water or breathing _him..._ Carl. He thought about the way kissing him felt like the kettle in his chest was now bubbling over, bursting and exploding and scalding. When they pulled away, Oliver's mouth suddenly stretched into a smile before he could stop it, his head spinning, and Carl took a breath, suddenly, and he let go of Oliver's shoulders, kicking hard, cupping his hands to his mouth and roaring at the night sky. . .

"NUMBER THIRTEEN!"

It took him a moment to realise that Oliver hadn't stopped staring, and he turned to the older teenager again, grinning and laughing and soaked and freezing, but he stopped smiling, slowly and then suddenly, because he was staring now, too. Oliver was about to kick himself forward, forgetting social laws and expectations for just _one more moment_. He was going to take each side of Carl's face in his hands and meet their lips a second time, he was going to focus on how warm Carl was, and he wasn't going to think about what he himself was doing. Because he was just going to _feel_ again. _Really,_ feel. But he suddenly scrambled out of the way. . .

"NYAHHH!"  
Sophia had jumped.

"Shit!" Oliver gasped, and more people came down after her, screaming and whooping, like teenage bombs.

Sophia came up, laughing and spluttering. "OhmyGod!"

"Here," Carl said breathlessly, and she grabbed his shoulder as a temporary buoy to catch her breath. Oliver was frazzled, feeling like he'd just been playing an intense computer game only for the whole town's power to cut out the moment he was about to move to the next level. He saw Carl glance at him, only for both boy to snap their eyes away from one another. Oliver knew he needed to break the ice, congratulate Sophia for her jump or blame whatever had just happened on lake water pollution or something, but someone else did it for him, because the three of them had to dodge another jumper before they crashed into the water right beside them.

"We're gonna get hit," Carl said. He was smiling, supporting Sophia. Oliver could tell they were both a little drunk given how much they were giggling at each other and coughing at the same time, and for the fleeting moments that he'd just spent wondering why that'd happened in the lake, he'd gotten his answer:

 _Carl_ _was drunk._

"What're we gonna do?" Oliver asked, swallowing his conflict.

Carl thought, and then looked at Sophia, lifting his brow and nodding. Before Oliver could ask what they were doing, he felt a tug on his arm, saw Sophia's grinning expression through the dark, her wet cheeks reflecting shards of the moon as she sucked in a deep breath, and then she ducked under. Oliver had enough time to take a deep breath as well before he was pulled under with her. She kept hold of his hand, her other holding Carl's, and the three of them swam from the falling campers, hearing the muffled cheers and splashes above the water.

Carl was a good swimmer, Oliver realised, because he could feel the younger teen pulling both he and Sophia through the water. The lake was pretty deep, and there was that rational part in the back of Oliver's air-deprived mind that warned him to watch out for drowning drunk people. He could see the bottom of the lake, or, he thought he could, but then again it was moving and wobbling, and so he probably couldn't at all. He was so pumped with adrenaline, and that strange, muddled, crazy youth feeling after something unexpected happens, _like when someone suddenly decides to kiss you –_ you know, that same feeling everyone feels at least once in their lives but can't ever quite describe properly? Well, he was so pumped with whatever the hell _that_ is that he could've been staring at the face of the Loch Ness Monster and he wouldn't have realised.

Until they were far enough away from the jumping spot to re-surface, and they coughed and spluttered and laughed and grabbed at each other to catch their breath, watching the last few campers as they cannon balled into the lake.

"Guys!"

Someone was calling to them, and the three of them looked over to see Duane at shore. They swam for him, pulling themselves from the water and sprawling on their backs on the sand and pebbles. Panting and wheezing and laughing. Duane tossed them two blankets that he'd gotten from somewhere. Oliver had expected Sophia to share with Carl, and so he didn't expect it when she suddenly curled herself against him and tucked the blanket around the both of them. She smiled at him, and Oliver shivered and smiled back.

"Hey," Duane said over the dub-step, "look."

They did, and across the lake they saw, floating on the surface a few feet apart, swaying in the water, a straw Stetson and a bright blue sun hat.

* * *

 _1\. GO AT LEAST A STATE AWAY FROM HOME.  
_ _2\. PAINT SOMETHING.  
_ _3\. SAY SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _4\. SAVE A LIFE.  
_ _5\. DO ANYTHING INVOLVING CORN. OR PUDDING.  
_ _6\. PUNCH SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT.  
_ _7\. GET DRUNK._ _ **X  
**_ _8\. STAY UP ALL NIGHT.  
_ _9\. SEE SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _10\. CAMP IN A TENT.  
_ _11\. SURVIVE SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU.  
_ _12\. TAKE A DRUG.  
_ _13_ _. JUMP OFF A CLIFF._ _ **X  
**_ _14\. SEE A CONCERT.  
_ _15\. S_ _AY SOMETHING IMPORTANT.  
_ _16\. STEAL SOMETHING._ _ **X  
**_ _17\. HAVE A MOVIE MARATHON.  
_ _18\. GO FISHING. (CATCH AT LEAST ONE FISH)  
_ _19\. GET LOST._ _ **X  
**_ _20\. SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF. (That won't result in substantial injury, death or kidnap.)  
_ _21\. JUMP OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.  
_ _22\. COOK A MEAL.  
_ _23\. Find the best pizza place._ _ **X**_

* * *

"No, man. What happened at the pizza place didn't count as number three."

"You called him assface." Carl was slurring.

"He _was,_ " Oliver frowned. "What about number twenty? I was totally terrified of doing that."

Carl shook his head, frowned, took another swig of beer. "I'm saving that one."

"You're not supposed to be drinking. You're driving tomorrow."

"You can drive, right?"

" _No..._ Yeah."

"Good."

"Jesus," Oliver grimaced. Shook his head. "For what?" he asked then.

"Huh?"

"What are you saving number twenty for?" Carl shrugged in answer, and so Oliver rolled his eyes and asked, "Whatever. What's next then?"

Carl thumbed over the bucket list. "Eighteen?"

"We're not fishing, Carl. Why did you even write that?"

"I dunno. It just sounded like something you put on a bucket list."

It had been a little awkward once the six of them had gotten back to their tent. Oliver, Carl and Sophia had found their clothes again. Oliver had to leave his wet T-shirt outside and just wear his flannel buttoned up. Sophia, Ellie and Eliza were in the tent now, sleeping off their alcoholism and pizzaism. Duane was in there, too, though, only sleeping off the pizzaism. Carl _had been_ in there, but he'd come out with the list in one hand and a beer in the other, sat next to Oliver by the fire (Oliver was still freezing since the lake) –"Why didn't you take your T-shirt off anyway?" Carl had asked, and Oliver shrugged and asked what was in the younger's hand. It was the bucket list. Neither boy had spoken about what happened in the lake though, and Sophia or Duane didn't see. So now, it was fairly apparent that the subject was one to be forgotten, and so, with the help of Carl being under the influence and Oliver being hopelessly insecure, despite not making the secrecy clear aloud to one another, already, rules were forming.

Rule number 1. Never speak of it again.

"I guess we'll do number ten?" Oliver suggested. "Camp in a tent."

Carl grimaced. " _Boring,_ " he complained, but then someone stumbled towards them, a red plastic cup in their hand with something fizzing in it. It was a guy a little older with tanned skin and blonde curly hair. He asked them where the bathroom was, and Carl pointed into the bushes a few hundred yards away. When he ambled off, Carl turned back to a grinning Oliver and continued. "We'll be doing that anyway. Let's do eight. Stay up all night."

"C'mon, man," Oliver complained. "You and I have to take the bike back in the morning, and I'm being _forced_ to drive your _grandma's_ car, when, I haven't driven a car in almost half a year. And I have a job trial, too, so unless you're planning on waiting all day for me to finish it then you're going to have to–" Oliver's stopped, and his eyebrows lifted when Carl pouted. _Really_ pouted. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him to make him stop or kiss him again. So he did neither. Because already, more rules were forming.

Rule number 2. Never do it again.

So instead he said, "I'm not staying up all night to be too tired to get us back to King County."

Carl sighed in relent. "Wait, you have a job trial?" Oliver nodded. Carl yawned, asked, "Where?"

"The florist."

"I thought you were just _buying_ flowers, not working for them."

Oliver pushed his shoulder. "Mr. Horvath offered. And I need the money."

Carl laughed quietly, and the two looked at each other for a moment too long. Like they did that day outside of the grave stone shop, like they did in the lake; inexplicably and ridiculously nervous. Carl grinned, suddenly. . .

"Unnecessary eye contact."

Oliver looked away, "Sorry."

"No."

Carl's hand came up, pulled Oliver's chin to look at him again. He was still grinning. Oliver wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Carl smile so much. _Drunk,_ he reminded himself, and somehow Carl's lips stretched even more. _Yeah. Definitely drunk._

"Unnecessary eye contact is great," Carl whispered then, and Oliver took advantage of this statement, looking and looking and looking. Looking so much that he could see a whole personality in his blueness. A whole galaxy. _Spellbinding,_ Oliver was thinking. _Spellbinding... and drunk._ "Unnecessary eye contact is interesting," Carl went on, still whispering. It make Oliver's ears tickle. "I heard somewhere that every pair of eyes is a different colour. No pair are ever exactly the same as another." He pointed to Oliver, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. When he laughed Oliver felt it against his face. "Like, yours're brown. But, not just brown, y'know? They... they're a little gold, too. Light, but, not... They're dark-light-brown-gold." He grinned at himself, his head rolling to the side before re-collecting himself again, all the while not breaking their eye-contact. Oliver was captivated. "They're nice..."

 _He's just drunk,_ he was telling himself. _Just drunk._

"Did you know that your body makes endorphins when you hold someone's eye contact for a long time?" Carl asked.

Oliver shook his head no. _You should look away,_ he told himself. _Spare him of the embarrassment and look away now._ But he didn't, mostly because Carl was still touching his chin, making sure he didn't, but still giving him the choice to turn his head if he wanted to.

"Some endorphins can make you feel like you're in love. Did y'know that?" It took Oliver a moment longer than it should have to shake his head this time. Carl was still grinning. Still whispering. "I should probably look away from you now," he said, and was leaning. "Or now... or... now. But I guess'm not gonna... Neither're you..." Oliver's heart was hammering. "Oliver?" Carl whispered, and Oliver didn't know if he was tipping forward or if the whole world was caving in around them. "How're the endorphins treatin' you?"

"Uh... g... good."

"Me, too."

Oliver knew what Carl was about to do, and his mind was bursting, like a balloon. It was too much, and panic made him turn his head, breaking the eye contact, splitting it right in two. It made him dizzy. It made him afraid that he would pass out into a heap of anxiety. Carl watched him, looking a little like he too was realising what was happening, and he looked a little disgruntled, but ignored it and drunkly gestured for the bucket list, so Oliver handed it over and watched Carl mark a messy cross next to number ten.

"Camp in a tent," he said. "Fine."

* * *

 **Notes**

So, their first kiss. . .

Along with Oliver being pretty different in this now, so is Carl. Without the hardship of the apocalypse he's kind of grown into a pretty confident guy, in this. He'll still have his insecurities, and it's pretty safe to say that it's all just a front he puts up right now, but you can be pretty confident that Oliver'll probably start breaking down the walls and reveal the true Grimes sooner or later :)

There probably won't be many more soccer camp throwbacks now, one or two dotted here and there if I feel it's necessary. But they both know they remember each other now, so, they'll probably just whatever it and move on :)

Tell me what you thought xx

 **Preview: "Trial Shift" Some more Dale, some more flowers, some more _mysterious blonde girl who we all really know who she is_ and some singing, because of course, where there is a _mysterious blonde girl,_ there usually is some singing to accompany her :D**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	9. Part 1: Grounded

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Yeah, poor kid. He's such a good guy about those kind of morals.

 **Guest** Wow. Thank you so much. That's soooo nice! Nyah! Oliver think _you're_ a really likable character, too! :D Yeah, I'm only just coming down from my Paper Towns high... it was intense, I might have to go back and tweak a few things so they're not so similar. Yeah, I find Carl's personality in this oddly refreshing. It's super fun writing them both so differently similar.

* * *

 **Friendly warning: This chapter may contain triggers for self harm.**

* * *

 _Dear, dinosaur.  
_ _SORRY WE STOLE YOUR PIZZA BIKE. THE MONEY IS IN THE CARRYON COMPARTMENT.  
_ _Ps._ _Next time help a guy out, ass face._

* * *

Carl: Hey. Cross that out.

Oliver: What? No!

Carl: You don't have to shout. My brain already threw up inside itself today.

Oliver: Sorry.

Carl: Oliver, cross it out. You already called him a dinosaur.

Oliver: Have you _never_ seen a build-your–

Carl: Oliver.

Oliver: _Fine._

Carl: Thank you. Did you put the money in?

Oliver: Here.

Carl: Alright, c'mon. Let's get out of here before anyone shows.

* * *

"Good luck."

Oliver had driven both the bike and the car without forgetting or killing anything. But he had twelve minutes left to get to _Horvath King County Florist_. Eleven now. He inhaled nervously, combing his fingers through his hair as best he could. "Thanks."

"Here," Carl said, and Oliver turned back just before he was going to sprint off Carl's driveway, and in the same moment his beanie was pulled on over his head, almost startling him. "The grey beanie," Carl said, smiling. " _The_ most effective cure for bed-heads, or, you know, lake-heads."

Oliver laughed, adjusting it to sit right, and despite the fact that he needed to leave, he didn't. "Thanks," he said, checking his watch, 9:50AM, and Carl nodded, waving without really bothering to move his hand much.

"Duane," Carl said, "uh, he'll drop your stuff off when he and the others get back in a few hours."

"Okay... um, look..."

Oliver had wanted to apologise all morning. He wanted to tell Carl that he never should have let him get so carried away last night, that just because Carl acted like it was fine or that he didn't remember it very well didn't make it okay. . . But Carl's eyebrows came up, a gesture that silenced Oliver just as effectively had it been a palm instead, and he grinned, "Oliver?"

He swallowed, "Hm?"

"I think this is the part where you go and do your job trial now."

"O-oh." Oliver nodded suddenly. "Right. Uh. Yeah. See you, man. Thanks–" He'd said that already. _Shit. Play it cool. Jesus, play it cool._ "–by the way, last night was fun."

Carl grinned, but the type of grin that was trying not to look too much like he meant it. " _Something_ fun," he corrected.

" _And_ hazardous," Oliver added, shooting Carl's ego before it got too cocky. It was quickly becoming apparent to Oliver, or rather, he was remembering all over again, that Carl was one of the most competitive people he knew. He figured that a victory kiss was just his own peculiar way of celebrating, like, maybe he just did that to people all the time. Oliver couldn't decide whether he thought that was a cool quirk or just a cruel disappointing piss-take. He was muddled enough. He didn't need Carl running around in his thoughts tossing _rainbow_ M &M's all over the place. "But yeah," he said before he let himself think about it all for too long, "it was something fun."

Carl grinned.  
Oliver grinned, too.

"Go, man."

A brief analogy of Oliver's current state is as followed:

1\. No car.  
2\. Hadn't showered since yesterday morning.  
3\. Smelled like pizza, yack, and stale lake water.  
4\. Was only wearing a flannel shirt over his top half seeing as his shirt was still back at the lake drying on a rock.  
5\. _Had_ brushed his teeth –had to swallow the toothpaste thanks to Carl's car lacking any type of sink. Oliver thought he would yack so he spat most of it out the window. Carl had to hold the wheel.  
6\. Had ten minutes to get there.

So, now?

Now, Oliver De Luca was running. High-tailing might be a better word. Oliver was running so fast that he was holding his beanie. His head was thrown back, and his free arm whipped back and forth, his jacket slapping in the wind. Oliver loved running. Running was why he'd made it in all those soccer teams. Because he was _fast._

 _Fucking_ fast.

He arrived at the florist parking lot nine minutes and fifty-two seconds later. A pale grey pick-up truck pulled into the parking lot and parked opposite him. There were no markings on the ground, as it was all just light stones and dust, so the truck parked horizontally. Oliver stared, panting madly, doubling forward onto his knees, but he was squinting, recognising the driver. The blonde girl with the yellow cardigan. She climbed out of the vehicle with a creak from the hinges, and she saw him and stopped in the middle of the parking lot, smiled, then gave him a friendly salute. Oliver nodded back awkwardly, knowing what she was doing here but no less confused by the odd coincidence.

The girl started walking to the florist. Poked her head into the door. Oliver heard her say something, "Dale," and, "that boy's here." She had a Southern accent, soft spoken, and when she stepped back out of the door she glanced over at him, smiling sweetly before disappearing into the gravestone building next door.

* * *

The job trial went well. He got the job, which kind of amazed him seeing as 1. he turned up panting and flustered and exhausted and smelling like a stale pizza, and 2. he knew nothing about plants at all. He pretty much just followed Dale around all morning. There was an entire cherry tree orchard around back that would apparently be ready by July to harvest and send off to local stores.

"Do you like cherries, Oliver?"

Oliver nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. "I like the smell," he understated, because Oliver _loved_ the smell of cherries. "But not the taste."

Dale frowned approvingly. "Perfect. I know you won't pick at 'em then."

Oliver smiled and followed Dale back towards the store, trying to remember the names of the rows and rows of growing flower beds that were out there. Carnations and Gerberas and Narcissus and Peonies.

"Dale..." It was the blonde girl with the yellow cardigan. The girl in the gravestone maker. The girl at the quarry. Her name was Bethany Greene. Beth for short. Sometimes Dale called her Bethy. She was twenty-one and had worked for Mrs. B for two years. Dale had told Oliver that Beth lived on a farm nearer Atlanta. "Dale," she said again, and he heard her and turned. "You've got a customer."

"Ah, I gotta take care of that," Dale said. "Oliver, you okay tailing Beth for the last hour of your shift? Help her out?"

"Yes, sir," Oliver nodded, and Dale smiled and disappeared into the florist's back door. Oliver turned to Beth, pursing his lips, mentally listing the social cues he needed to remember to use.

1\. Relaxed expression.  
2\. Open body gestures.  
3\. Eye contact. (but not too much)  
4\. No finger tapping.  
5\. Or beanie pulling.

"C'mon, Oliver."

Despite the florist being its own independent company. It turned out that it, the grave making place and the funeral parlour actually kind of shared their employees, who only consisted of Dale, Oliver, Beth, Mrs. B and Amy. Oliver hadn't met Amy yet. Nor had he yet met Mrs. B, but it didn't take him long to realise that she was actually the same lady who managed the graveyard opposite his house. The lady with the long, brown, braided hair and the two sons who brought her lunch. Mary. As well as working opposite his house, she managed and lived at the funeral parlour here, and Oliver didn't actually know her full last name apart from its first letter: B. But he didn't ask nor did anyone ever tell him.

"Alright, Dale's got this place for a little while, you and I've gotta head over to the parlour," Beth instructed, checking her watch. "It's one o'clock. So we've got an hour to prepare the foyer. Two's the end of your shift, right?" Oliver nodded and followed her out to the parking lot. His part-time work schedule was going to be, typically, every Saturday, seven am to three pm, and every Sunday, ten am to three pm.

Beth's truck was an old grey pick-up that looked like it might originally actually have been white, but like, far enough back in time _before_ she was born. It had an open back and looked kind of like it was about to fall apart. The door jammed twice. "Uh..."

"You've gotta yank it," Beth explained from the driver's seat, reaching over to help from inside, "and sorta... wiggle the button under the handle... yeah, like that." It snapped open, and Oliver climbed in carefully. Beth chuckled and started up the engine. It spluttered dangerously, but Beth persisted, and the engine rolled over itself, sounding like a dying train, until it caught. "There's my girl," Beth praised it under her breath, and pulled out of the lot towards the parlour. Oliver didn't mean to look worried. "She looks worse than she really is," Beth reassured. "But this truck has gotten me through some pretty spectacular adventures." Oliver nodded and let go of his seat belt. "Daddy bought it off a man three years ago for the farm. Gave it to me when we had to sell half our cattle last Spring."

There were burnt circles in the seats from neglected cigarettes, and the whole vehicle was rusting and smelt like beer and yack and chemicals, and on the dash board was a scratched carving reading, _"M. Dixon"_ on it. . . "Cool," Oliver said, and he actually meant it.

The parlour came into view. It was sort of in a pocket of trees, stone heads set up in the field between it and the road like an army of guard dogs. The parlous was a large white building. It looked like it had three floors, but in truth the basement just sort of poked out from under it a little more than usual.

"You afraid o' dead people?" He looked at her and blinked. "Are you?" she asked again, serious and curious.

"Why?"

"We're goin' to the morgue in the parlour. It's where we keep the bodies to dress and prepare them for rest." Oliver wasn't sure why he hadn't realised this. "So...?"

"Uh. Not substantially," he answered. Just as long as none of them jumped up and tried to eat him like they did in his comics and nightmares, he guessed he didn't have a problem.

"Good," Beth said. She started humming softly. Then said, "They're not all that bad anyway. It's just stigma. But, actually, the dead're kinda the most peaceful people I know. Well, them'n my daddy."

Inside the parlour, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The hallway was bright, and there were some flowers on the table beside the door; Dale's floristry, Oliver somehow could recognise. Beth and Oliver cleaned the foyer together, as the rest of the house was owned and looked after by Mary. She was out at the moment, and so the two got to dusting, mostly, and a little vacuuming, tidying, rearranging some of the furniture. Oliver helped Beth push the piano from the hallway into the foyer, and they laid several chairs in rows in there, facing the open coffin that was on the far side of the room by the window, and Oliver didn't mean to sigh with relief when he saw that nothing was inside it.

"Why are we doing this?" he asked curiously.

"There's a funeral tomorrow. Their holding the open casket in here?"

"Where's..." He hesitated, not sure if he should ask. Beth smiled. . .

"The body?"

"Yeah," Oliver nodded lamely, and Beth gestured him to come with her.

"Down stairs in the morgue. C'mon. We gotta clean up down there. Won't take long. You can end your shift once we're done."

They went into the hallway, found the door that led down to the basement/morgue. Oliver noticed the drop in temperature, door behind him, followed Beth down the narrow staircase that turned to the right half way.

Inside, it was brighter than he'd imagined. In fact, the whole building's interior was. Oliver sort of had it in his head that it would be depressing and bland and dark. But it wasn't. Natural light flooded in from the high windows on the left side of the room, and the flood light switched on instantly without flickering once like it would in scary movies. There was one thing though. One thing, being a thing that made Oliver double take and stop at the last step for a moment.

The body.

It was a man. Old. Dead, obviously. He was in a suit, a dark green bow tie around his neck. Oliver inhaled uncomfortably. He was holding a cloth that he'd been using to dust, and he only remembered it when Beth plucked it from his hands.

"You okay?" Beth asked, and Oliver nodded, but didn't take his eyes off of the corpse. "It's alright if you don't wanna be here. Don't be embarrassed."

"No, I..." Oliver shook his head, "I'm fine."

Beth smiled and started wiping down the counters, and Oliver got the brush and swept the floor, his eyes unintentionally returning to the body every few minutes. Beth pretended not to notice, and she started humming quietly; to comfort him, Oliver was kind of embarrassed to realise.

"Aren't dead people supposed to be, like, pale and...?" He thought of some word that Penelope would use. "Gaunt?"

Beth picked up a small silver container, popped it open to show a thin sponge and the skin coloured powder inside. "Make-up," she said. "Amy and I usually do it for them. Style their hair, make them look... well, _them._ "

"Oh. Okay."

"You don't have to whisper, Oliver. He's dead."

"Oh, right," he said, embarrassed because he didn't realise he had been whispering, but he still glanced at the man, some small part at the back of his head expecting him to sit up and tell him to shut up because he was busy being dead. To Oliver, a boy that'd never seen a real dead person in his whole life, the man looked like he might've just been sleeping.

They continued cleaning, and when they were done they went back upstairs. Oliver kept sniffing because of the detergent he'd used. But he didn't need to take his inhaler. Beth remembered that she'd brought Mary some groceries and had left them in her truck, and was grateful when Oliver said he'd help take them in.

"It is cool though," he said, unpacking the cans and the powdered milk and the vegetables and the sunflower seeds.

"What?" Beth asked, putting them all away neatly in the cupboards.

"That you make up the bodies," he said. "Even though they're dead – even though they'll be in a hole in the ground. You still make them look like themselves, you know?"

"Well they were people," she said. "Once. A lot of us seem to forget that. I mean, just because they're gone doesn't mean they should be thrown in a hole and forgotten. Y'see people walking over their graves and graffiting their stones. It's sad. That could be someone's mom or dad, or brother or sister. And even if they weren't, they were still someone, once. I'm just glad there're still people who remember that."

Oliver knew that he didn't need to say anything, and he watched Beth take a seat at the piano, and she started tapping keys with her index finger, the soft noises tickling at the edges of Oliver's ear drums. "Do you play?" he asked her.

She smiled and nodded. Oliver's brow rose, and he glanced between her and the piano. She took the hint, "What do you want me to play?" she asked. Oliver shrugged, so she nodded thoughtfully, her hands grazing along the keys and finding their position. Beth had soft hands. The type of hands that looked like they belonged right there on that piano. So she played. Oliver recognised the tune instantly. It was _'I'll Try Anything Once'_ by The Strokes. He grinned, and she started singing. . .

" _Ten decisions shape your life,_ _  
_ _You'll be aware of five; about,_ _  
Seven_ _ways to go through school,_ _  
_ _Either you're noticed or left out,_ _  
Seven_ _ways to get ahead,_ _  
Seven_ _reasons to drop out,"_

Oliver leant against the piano, laying his head in his arms, faced towards her. He focussed on the sounds moving through his whole body from the jet black instrument, vibrating through his temple, up his nose, over his tongue, into his gut, out of his skin right down to his finger tips and toes. He loved that about music. How it could _physically_ travel through him. Beth had a soft and sweet voice, too. It seemed like everything about her was soft and sweet. So soft and sweet that Oliver closed his eyes, focussed on the vibrations, and he hardly noticed when he started singing along, too. _. ._

 _"W_ _hen I said, 'I can see me in your eyes,'_ _  
_ _You said, 'I can see you in my bed,'_ _  
_ _That's not just friendship that's romance, too,_ _  
_ _You like music we can dance to,_ _  
_ _Sit me down,_ _  
_ _Shut me up,_ _  
_ _I'll calm down,  
And I'll get along with you,_

 _There is–"_

Beth stopped suddenly.

"H-hey, why'd you stop?" Oliver said, lifting his head, and he only felt embarrassed when he saw the was she was looking at him; looking like she'd never seen a boy before.

"You're actually kinda good," she said. "D'you sing for real?"

Oliver shrugged. "Erm... I was in a few school plays, talent shows. Play guitar, sing, a-a little, but, not _for_ anything."

"Well, you're good."

He smiled modestly, shrugged, felt awkward.

"This your last year of school?"

"Uh-huh," Oliver said, figuring that he should at least make a noise while he nodded.

"You goin' to college?"

Again, a shrug.

"Have you applied?"

He nodded this time.

"To how many places?"

"Three," Oliver said truthfully, and was glad when Beth chose not to ask anything else. Not because he didn't have the answers, but because he had so little faith in them that talking about them, or even thinking too much about them, made Oliver's stomach wrench on his trachea. The way he saw it, he had three paths in the way of his next step in _real life_.

Path number 1. Studying Medicine in South Carolina. This was the practical and safe and expected path. He had talked to his parents about it, and they had approved and told him they were proud of him. He would be far enough away from King County and close enough to Lorton to maybe feel a little more comfortable. He could spend every few weekends at his dad's lake house, and he'd be studying towards a respectable career and lifestyle.

Path number 2. Public college in Atlanta, which was essentially plan B if he didn't make it into Med School. He was afraid of path number two with everything in him. His parents didn't say so, but they were, too. But always told Oliver that he wouldn't even need to worry about it. But Oliver didn't know if this was comforting or if it put more pressure on him.

Path number 3. Turning away from college all together. Oliver was more afraid of this path than he was of the second path.

Then there was an added path number 4. Studying Music Industry Arts in the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, Ohio. A two year program that had popped up once in Oliver's YouTube adverts. He hadn't told anyone about this application. Not even Patrick. The day he'd sent the letter, he'd paced next to the letter box for fifteen minutes. In the end, the post man came along and took the letter from him, wearing a smirk that told Oliver that the guy knew exactly what he was doing not doing there. Anyway, studying music was not the practical path, neither was it the safe path, and it definitely wasn't the expected path. Oliver didn't know if he wanted to be some famous musician touring around the world and all of that, he just knew that he loved music more than anything. He loved it like he loved skating. He loved it like he hated soccer.

"It's two PM," Beth said, and Oliver snapped out of his thoughts. "Thanks for helping out. I'll give you a good review to Dale. You'll pick up your wages, thirty-two dollars for four hours, tomorrow at the end of your shift, and so on after that." Oliver nodded. "See you, Oliver?"

"Seven AM," Oliver said.

"Yeah."

He nodded.

"Thanks for the pizza."

"You're welcome," he grinned.

Beth smiled, and went back to playing the piano. Oliver had managed to borrow Beth's phone charger to re-charge his own phone while they were cleaning the place. He hadn't checked it yet, but now, finishing his shift, walking home, he did. He had one text message, and it made his heart freeze.

* * *

 _Grounded.  
_ _Love, Mom._

* * *

"Shit."

* * *

So, it turned out that Sophia, Duane, Carl and Oliver had overlooked a few things... Rosa wasn't exactly as introverted as they'd expected. Oliver's mother had run into Rick at Kindergarten, both parents picking up their children. Rick mentioned about Judith and Em having a play date, as Carl must have mentioned it, and then proceeded to mention that he was there because Carl was at Sophia's house for the night. "But it was strange," Rosa had explained to Oliver while he held up a metaphorical white flag of mercy. She ignored it completely. " _You_ told me that you were going over _Carl's_ house..." Anyway, Rick, having been friends with Carol for years now, called her up and, "Funnily enough, Carol thought that Sophia was at _our_ house."

Oliver was wincing. "Mom."

"It's the oldest trick in the book, Oliver," Rosa scolded. "If you're going to sneak out then at least put some thought into it. You should have said you were all at Duane's house. His parents aren't even in town."

"What?!" Oliver asked. "For one, it's just him and his dad. His dad just left town with his girlfriend and her kid."

"Oliver."

"And two, you're supposed to be _yelling_ at me. Not telling me how to break the rules better."

His mother waved dismissively. "Oh, you can break these kind of rules, Oliver. You're eighteen. As long as you don't do anything that'll kill you you can do whatever you want. If you'd just asked to go I would've been fine with it."

"So, you're _not_ going to ground me?"

"What?" Rosa frowned. "Of course I'm grounding you."

Oliver rolled his eyes, groaned.

"You lied to me," Rosa answered. "And you brought home laundry that smells like _vomito_."

"I'm pretty sure someone did yack in it."

Rosa scoffed. "Do your laundry, then make supper tonight." He scooped up the laundry basket. "Oh, wait," Rosa said. "You can't make supper. You're babysitting at five."

"Oh. I forgot all about that."

"You still have a few hours. I'll text you the address," Rosa said. "They live in the next town, not too far away though. You can take my car." Oliver pretended his stomach didn't just flip over on itself as he nodded and went and did his laundry.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:30pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

So, the bonus step didn't quite work out so well, huh?

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:32pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

No, it didn't. How did your mom take it?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:32pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Alright, actually. Surprisingly.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:33pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

You're so luck you're eighteen already. Actually no, you're lucky that your dad isn't the town Deputy.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 04:35pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

How'd he take it?

* * *

The house phone rang.

Oliver was sat watching Breaking Bad with his mom, and was closer to the phone. "Hello?"

" _Sophia gave me your number."_

"Carl?"

" _Yeah. And, in reply to your email. My dad? Oh,_ _my dad_ _killed me,"_ Carl said as if he'd just as well told Oliver that Rick had bought home Tim Horton's.

"He _killed_ you?" Oliver asked, and took the conversation upstairs into his bedroom. Em tried to follow, but Oliver frowned at him and shut the door in his face. He knew that the little boy was still sat outside though, listening.

" _Yeah,"_ Carl replied, _"like, I'm_ literally _dead right now. My dad gutted me, bit my throat out, and hid my body in his cop car. Hey did you ever watch Supernatural?"_

"Duh."

" _Well, I'm literally so far dead that Sam and Dean wouldn't even be able to_ _contact_ _me if they tried. I'm so far dead that. . ."_ Carl kept adding, and Oliver was laughing, laughing harder and harder, _he_ himself sounded like he might have been dying, and he would have been embarrassed, but he wasn't. _"Yeah... h_ _e's pretty mad,"_ Carl said once after a few minutes of his terrible Supernatural references. _"Grounded me for the weekend. Pretty sure I'm supposed to make Judith's cake now as punishment. But, it's whatever, so."_

"My mom grounded me, too," Oliver explained. "But, her version of grounding is just doing extra chores, that and putting up with her irritable-Italian mutterings a little more than usual." Carl chuckled. "You should get Sophia to help. She's good at cooking."

" _A_ _re you?"_

"Carl Grimes," he said, and realised that he liked saying it. "Similar to your ability of failing to lose your virginity, I have this amazing talent to turn preparing a milkshake into a fire hazard."

" _What?!"_

"No, seriously," Oliver said. "Pat – my big brother. He once brought home this home-made whisking-machine-thing from a school project."

 _"What happened?"_

"Spontaneous combustion!" Oliver exclaimed. " _That's_ what happened. I didn't have a left eyebrow for weeks!"

Carl was laughing the same way Oliver had been. Hysterically. Oliver was led on his bed, grinning at the ceiling. In that moment, he couldn't even remember a time that he'd stared up at the same part of his bedroom and _wasn't_ laughing. In that moment, all Oliver could remember about himself at all was laughing, right now, talking to Carl, hearing his laughter and his own alike, every other memory felt like it belonged to another person. As if Oliver was split in two. All the good feelings were this part of him, the laughing, smiling, funny version. And all the sad, miserable, bitter feelings were another Oliver. He liked this version of Oliver better, and tried not to think about how it would only be temporary.

Finally, each boy stopped laughing, and for a few moments they didn't say anything at all. Like he had several times today, Oliver thought about what Carl had done in the lake. His smile began to fade, but he was still buzzing. He could hear Carl breathing. He could hear his thumb shifting against the side of his phone slightly, his swallow before he finally decided to speak. _"_ _You wouldn't be able to help anyway,_ _I'd still be grounded."_

"Wait, you were asking me to help you make the cake?"

" _K_ _inda. Thought it'd be a good way to tick off number twenty-two:_ _cook a meal_ _."_

Oliver sat up. "Does cake count as a meal?"

" _We could make a meal as well?"_

Oliver couldn't stop his face from scrunching suddenly. The butterflies were violent and inexplicable and ridiculous. "I thought you were grounded."

" _Well,_ _Em's still coming Thursday, right?"_ Carl said then. _"To the birthday party?"_

"Yeah."

" _C_ _ool. Can you make it, too?"_

"Mom's busy so I gotta take him anyway."

It took Carl a little longer to ask his next question. _"Could you show up early?"_

Oliver's eyes were still clenched, and he was tapping his fingers furiously against his forehead, but he kept his voice causal. "Sure."

" _Oliver De Luca,"_ Carl said, and Oliver realised that he liked hearing Carl say his full name the same way he liked _saying_ Carl's full name, and Oliver imagined Carl's lips with his voice. He imagined them moving, forming the shapes of the sounds and syllables. He imagined what they felt like. He _remembered_ what they felt like. . . _"did we just successfully find a l_ _oop hole?"_

"Yes," Oliver grinned, and was still thinking about his lips. "I think we just did." Then he stopped thinking of Carl's lips, shook his head, said, "But seriously, spontaneous combustion could still become a reoccurring reality."

" _We j_ _ust won't let our guard down,"_ Carl said, and he'd put on a heavy Southern accent like his father's and grandma's. Oliver laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Oh," he said finally. "Crap. I have to go."

" _Yeah?"_

"Yeah," Oliver said, rushing around his bedroom to collect his shoes and belongings. "I'm babysitting. Well, kind of."

" _Kind of?"_

"Teen-sitting. One girl is thirteen, the other's a few years older," Oliver said, and remembered what his dad said once about client confidentiality. "Their dad wanted me there to keep an eye on things."

" _Cool."_

"See you. Hey, wanna do something tomorr... oh, wait, we're grounded."

" _Yeah..."_

"Okay, fine, see you at school."

" _Carl?"_ it was an older male voice, Southern accent. Not Rick, though.

" _Yeah?"_

" _Your mom's made dinner."_

"Who's that?"

" _Sure, I'll be there in a minute – My mom's boyfriend."_

"You're at her house?"

" _Yeah. Judy and I're here for the next two weeks."_

"Oh," Oliver said, prying his hoodie out from under his bed. "Yeah. You haven't told me anything about your mom." Carl didn't say anything, so Oliver kept talking. "Does she live in town?"

" _No. The other side of Georgia,_ _Judy and I s_ _. . ."_

"Ew!" Oliver grunted when he felt something sticky in his hoodie pocket. "Em!" he growled, and he heard the little boy startle against his door, scurrying away to his bedroom. "Stop putting candy in my damned clothes you little snot rocket!" He picked up the cell again. "Sorry, what did you say, man?"

" _Nothing. It doesn't matter."_ Oliver was about to protest, but Carl added. _"Don't you have to go?"_

"Right. Yeah. Bye, man. Have a good time at your mom's."

" _Sure."_

* * *

There wasn't really much to say about babysitting. Lizzie and Mika were nice. It didn't take long for Ollie to realise he got along with them. He didn't really do much. He just watched TV with them. He helped Mika make pasta for supper. He failed to notice when Mika had pained his nails. He just suddenly realised, while mixing the pasta, that his fingernails were bright pink, and worked furiously to chew as much of the stuff off as he could. Mika apologised through her giggles, and after a few minutes, once he realised she wasn't trying to be mean, he laughed, too. "Whatever, pinks awesome anyway," he jested, and Mika took the wooden spoon and grinned into the pasta.

He only needed to stay for three hours before their parents got home again from the movies. Ryan asked Oliver how the girls behaved, and Oliver saw his wife pop out a few blue and white pills and some other orange ones, handing them to Lizzie with a glass of water, and he said, "Fine, sir. Yeah. We had a good time."

"Thank you." Ryan handed Oliver twenty dollars, thanked him again, and so Oliver waved goodbye to Mika and Lizzie and left.

Oliver was inside his mother's car and started the engine when Lizzie walked out and tapped on his window. The Samuel family had a pet Shih Tsu dog called Greeble, and he was tucked under her arm, panting madly through his smudged, cream face.

Oliver opened the window. Fifteen-year-old Lizzie Samuels was tall and thin and had a soft-looking face that somehow always seemed curious about something, with long blonde hair and fair skin, and she had a habit of chewing the inside of her lip, which Oliver noticed actually gave her sores as he'd seen her applying a cream to them.

"What's up, Lizzie?"

"You left this."

It was his inhaler. "Oh, thanks."

"Your Mom's Mrs. De Luca, right?"

Oliver nodded. "Miss."

Lizzie blinked. "She's Mika's school Councillor. She says she's nice."

Oliver felt a little awkward. He wasn't an idiot. He knew there was a reason why she'd come out, and that it wasn't just to give him his inhaler.

"Um... I'm sorry for standing on your watch."

"Oh..." He'd left it on the arm of the couch and hadn't noticed when it fell off, and so, as she walked past, it snapped under her heel. "No. It's cool. It was old anyway."

She nodded, looking a little relieved, shushing Greeble when he wriggled. "Well, until you get a new one I've got this," she said half heartedly, pulling something out of her pocket. "It's old, too. But it's not broken, so..." It was a small pink watch. Grubby and for little girls. Oliver laughed. Lizzie, too. But she shrugged and gestured for him to take it.

"Are you sure?" Oliver asked.

"I don't want it anyway. Just throw it away if you don't either."

"Thanks," he said, and almost said _man,_ but bit back the habit for her sake. Oliver figured that calling fifteen year old girls he hardly knew _'_ _man_ _'_ probably wasn't going to be a very confidence-boosting thing to do. "Pinks my favourite colour."

"Can tell by your nails."

He looked at them, sucked in air through his teeth, "Thank your sister for that."

Lizzie smirked. "Lucky it's your favourite, huh?"

Oliver laughed, and so did she. "Try red."

"Well then..." She pulled out something else. "Here." He caught it, and it was a small, red, thread bracelet. "It's Mika's. She makes hundreds of them... Look, it's _red._ "

"Won't she mind?"

Lizzie shook her head. "No. I keep all the ones she doesn't want. Red didn't make the cut."

Oliver smiled awkwardly, wondering if there was anything else she was going to spontaneously gift him with. She seemed like that sort of teenager. The kind that just _did things_ just because she _felt like it._ In the three hours since he'd met her Lizzie had cut a few locks of her own hair out because they weren't sitting right. Oliver didn't really know what to do when he looked over at her across the living room. It was _her_ hair, after all, and Mika didn't say anything, so he didn't either.

Lizzie was frowning suddenly.

"Is everything okay?" he asked her.

She nodded, smiled, stepped back and waved. "Yep. Bye. It was cool to meet you. You'll probably be coming back again soon. Mom and Dad have been talking about going out more."

"Cool."

"I'd babysit Mika myself, but, I've... I'm..."

"Uh... My mom told me."

Lizzie nodded, but like a _Jesus Christ that's embarrassing_ kind of nod.

"It's whatever," Oliver said. "Everyone's got something."

"Yeah," Lizzie said, looking awkward and embarrassed. "But, most of the time it's not imaginary friends, and, psychosis." Oliver wasn't really sure if he should laugh. So he didn't. Sort of just forced a smile. "So, what's your something?" she asked then.

Oliver knew his answer. In fact, he knew several of them. But he just shrugged. "Uh... I can't sleep without socks on," he said.

Lizzie laughed. "Weirdo."

"Bye, Lizzie. Bye, Greeble."

She waved and walked back inside, and Oliver chuckled to himself, reversing out of the driveway.

* * *

Exhausted and at home in one piece, Oliver trudged up to his bedroom, chewing at his fingernails to get the last of the nail paint off. Despite his lethargy, he sat down carefully on his bed, and he let out a long breath and buried his face in his hands, pressing his features with his fingertips as if to remember that he was still a part of them all.

He'd put Mika's bracelet on his left wrist, Lizzie's watch in his pocket. He checked it. 9:40PM. He took out his phone and emailed his father. He wasn't sure why. But then again, a son doesn't need a reason to want to talk to his father, right? Or at least, they _shouldn't._

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** **_MDDeLuca_** _ _ **_Psychiatrist  
**__ **Date: May 9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:43pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Hey, Dad. How are you?

* * *

He waited an hour. Nothing back. His dad was probably in some video conference or something, or consulting a client. Oliver shouldn't be bothering him anyway. He was a busy man. But, he couldn't help it. He messaged him over facebook, and then thirty minutes later, as a last resort, he tried calling. It went to voice mail twice. On the third time Oliver left a recording.

"Hey. Dad. Uh, it's me... uh, Oliver. Just, wanted to say hi. You're probably busy working and all, which is totally cool, uh, do what you love, right? Um, anyway, I was wondering..." Actually, the thought had only just occurred to him, and Oliver stopped talking, wondering if what he was about to ask was why he'd wanted to talk to him in the first place. "Uh, i-if I could come to the cabin with you soon? Like you asked. Um, anyway, yeah. It's cool there. I miss it... I miss. . ." This was a longer voice message than he thought it'd be, so Oliver tried to wrap it up. "Uh, anyway, so, would that be cool? Any time you're able to? That'd be..."

It picked up.

". . . Hello?"

" _Hey!"_ It was a woman's voice. She sounded tired and groggy. _"How's it going?"_

"Who are you?"

" _I'm..."_ she giggled, and spoke to someone else on her end. _"Stop. I'm on the phone. Think it's a client."_

" _Oh."_ Oliver heard his father, and his heart both dropped and clenched. _"Client? Wait, you're using m_ _y... H-hey, no, you can't answer my work phone."_ Oliver's dad only had a work phone. It was his regular phone, just like his email was his regular email, but he still called them his _work_ phone and _work_ email. He didn't have a _personal_ anything.

Oliver grimace, because she started giggling even more. "Is he there?"

" _Yes."_

"Can I talk to him?"

" _He's a little... busy."_ Oliver suddenly wanted to throw his phone across the room. _"Can I take a m..." –she sighed– "message?"_ Oliver didn't say anything, suddenly mortified, so she kept talking. _"What's your name,_ _sweetie_ _?"_

"Oliver," he spat. "I'm his son. Ask him if he remembers me. Actually, tell him he can go fuck himself once he's done fucking you." It seemed he could also talk back to total strangers, too. He hung up, and he did throw his phone across the room this time.

It hit his pillow anticlimactically.

Oliver scrunched his hands into his fringe and tried to stop the scream swelling in the pit of his chest. _This isn't fair,_ he thought. _What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with me? I have no place to feel disappointed by this. I know not to expect more from him._ He was pacing now. _But why shouldn't I expect more from him? He's my dad._ My _dad. Why should I have to accept that I'm put second? Why should he be allowed to do this to me? Why should he be allowed to mean so much to me? To all of us!_ His mind was like Google. He'd type one question into the search engine and it would come up with a hundred more questions he needed to ask in order to answer it, and then a hundred more questions for each of those questions. It was an endless cycle that made Oliver's mind and body ache and his nails dig into his palms.

His cell rang again. Oliver ignored it. Then ignored it again when it rang a second time. Then the house phone rang, and Oliver felt, under the disappointment and hurt and anger, a small growth of satisfaction in making his father chase around him like this, like it was some small achievement. But then his mom answered it, and guilt suddenly brought bile to Oliver's throat. "Shit!"

He scrambled out of the door and shot down the staircase, snatching the phone from his mother before she could bring it to her ear. "Oliver!"

"It's for me," he muttered, and left upstairs without another explanation, hoping that she didn't notice the red in his eyes and the way his hair was ruffled too much at the front and sides.

" _God,_ _I'm sorry about that,"_ was the first thing his father told him, and Oliver imagined carrying out number six on his and Carl's bucket list on his father. _Punch someone who deserves it._ There was an awkward pause, and still, Oliver couldn't bring himself to say everything barrelling around in his head. He sat at the end of his bed and scrunched his eyes shut, listening and hating and aching without a sound. So his father spoke. _"Anyway, what's up? How've you been?"_

"Fine."

" _Son.._ _."_ As a recognised psychiatrist, Oliver's father had always been able to tell when Oliver was lying to him. It was why Oliver emailed him mostly, because not even his father could read his thoughts through type. But hearing the empathy in his voice, it made Oliver's blood boil, because why the fuck should he be allowed to know Oliver so well when he was hardly ever in his life? Why should he be allowed to think he can fix so many people when it was his father who was more fucked up than any of them?

That day in Orlando, when Oliver caught his father and that lady in the condo. After she hurried out of the apartment, and after Oliver's father had put his clothes back on and helped clean up the exploded milk, he sat his crying son at the dining room table and councilled him, like he would his patients, talking him through everything that had happened and acknowledging how upset it had made him, and yes, it made Oliver feel better, and yes, by the end they were laughing and talking and okay, on the surface, but the reconcile was only ever temporary. _"I feel terrible,"_ his father would say, and did say. _"I know how angry you must feel. And that's okay. You can tell me how disappointed you are, it's good for you to get it off your chest. You have every right to."_ That was the thing about his father. He spoke about his wrongs in such a way that, sometimes, Oliver wasn't even sure he even _was_ wrong anymore, and right now, hearing his father say all of that in his Shrink voice, it was working again. The worst thing was, Oliver knew it, but was powerless against it.

"It's fine, Dad," he said, his voice small, his mind eating him. "Whatever."

" _Alright, buddy."_ Oliver shut his eyes again and bit his tongue until he tasted blood. _"Oh, what was it today... Oh, yeah, your job trial, how did it go?"_

Oliver could have told him that he'd seen a dead body, which was kind of cool and worth telling your father, but he knew that he'd would only say, _'Yeah, and how was that?'_ in his Shrink voice, like Oliver had really said it because he was suppressing his trauma of the event or something, so instead, Oliver said, "Yeah. It was fine."

" _Did you get the job?"_

Oliver couldn't quite answer without crying anymore, and so he mumbled a quiet _Uh-huh_ noise.

" _What is it?"_

Oliver hesitated.

" _Buddy?"_

Oliver frowned and took a breath and held it for a second, swiped the tear away from his cheek. "I work in a florist." There was a pause. "And a cherry orchard." Cleared his throat. "It's near a funeral parlour."

" _So, you're a gardener?"_ his father asked, and Oliver self-consciously imagined him laughing.

"No," he said. "I'm a florist. I just kind of help out around the whole place."

" _Whole place?"_

"The florist, and the orchard, and the funeral parlour, and the grave maker place."

" _Seems kind of morbid for you,"_ his father said. _"I'd have thought you'd work in Starbucks or something. Work somewhere where you can talk to people your age and,_ _you know_ _... life status."_

Oliver knew it was a joke, and so he pretended to laugh. But inside all he could think was, _See, Dad, you have no idea who I am._ "Nah," he said instead. "It's okay. Quiet."

" _It's late now, huh?"_

Oliver's face fell. He knew his father really meant, _I'm trying to hang up now. . .  
_ "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess."

" _Okay. I'll let you get to sleep,"_ he said. _"Night, son."_

"Night."

" _Oh, tell your mom that she needs to make the other half of your_ _med_ _payments."_ Ever month Oliver got a set of four types of medication. Three inhalers and some tablets. All for his asthma, which had progressively gotten worse over the years rather than better. Usually, kids grew out of it. But not Oliver. Anyway, it costed almost forty dollars every month, and that was _with_ full time education benefits. It was going to be over sixty dollars a month when he left college in two or three years. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Oliver said quietly, guilty. For 1. he hated that his asthma care was so expensive, and 2. he hated how it was always _him_ that had to ask his mom. Whenever his parents needed to tell each other something, they always did it through their children. By default Oliver was always the messenger. He often wanted to go full-Hermione at them and shout, _"I am NOT an_ _owl!"_ but instead, he said, very quietly, "Dad," . . . _please?_ But his father hung up before he could finish, and Oliver inhaled sharply, pulling the rest of his sentence back into his throat. He twisted his phone in his hand and let the breath back out again, only, the words left him a little different this time. "go fuck yourself," he finished, and didn't know if he meant it more to his father or himself.

Then it was quiet. Finally.  
Oliver had a very strange relationship with the quiet.

He longed for quiet. All day and every day. But he was also afraid of it. When it got quiet, Oliver was allowed to let his mind wander, and it wandered to places that he both hated and felt comfort in. His thoughts spoke to him, told him how the world worked, how he did and didn't fit into it, how other people saw him, how they _would_ see him if they knew who he really was. His thoughts told him to do things, to think things, to want things and not want things, and then shot him down with reminding him of how wrong he was for it, and sometimes, on particularly bad nights, they told him what he could do to stop it all...

Oliver was hugging himself, sat still and quiet on his bed, breathing and listening and trying not to think about anything else other than the in-takes and out-takes of his lungs. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._ But he could hear the voice inside his head, the most familiar one. . . _Please_ _,_ it was whispering, softly and comfortingly and desperately. _You know you should. You know you deserve it. You know it'll make you feel better. You know it will make you feel_ something.

Oliver felt the compulsion rising in his chest and aching at his fingertips, and he tried to think of reasons not to. He tried to stay perfectly still and to not do anything at all. But it was like a craving... an addiction... and he took the skin under his ribcage between his thumb and index finger, and he pinched himself, hard. The sting and ache radiated across his whole body and made him wince and grit his teeth. Until it went numb. But an odd kind of numb. A familiar kind of numb. A kind of numb that hurt like a stubbed toe but was relieving, too, and so, after a few minutes, he let go and took another part of his skin between his thumb and index finger, pinched there, too, and then another place, and another, and another and another and another...

This ritual took place almost every time he found himself in this situation. In his own bedroom. In his own quiet. In his own thoughts. He wasn't sure when he'd first started doing it. Over time, an accidental knock against the table corner turned into a deliberate one, and then a deliberate knuckle scrape across a concrete wall, and then a smack across the face in the bathroom mirror, and then a punch in the thigh, a scratch on his stomach...

Pinching, Oliver had learnt, worked best. Worked worst. Worked.

Oliver knew it was self harm, but the way he figured, it didn't leave a scar or mark that lasted more than a few days, and so it didn't really count as anything. _Pathetic,_ he and that familiar voice both scolded. The very thought of walking up to his mom or dad and showing them the bruises made Oliver feel sick with embarrassment and shame. He couldn't even self harm properly, let alone be worthy of his own parent's help if they had any to give him in the first place. In the grand scheme of things, Oliver knew that he didn't really have anything to be so screwed up about. He had a home. His parents were both in his life. He had two brothers that he got along with. Family that he got along with. A best friend, heck, he even had new friends now. But he was still miserable. Inexplicably and irrationally miserable. If his mother noticed, whether it be because he was staring off into space, or because he'd absentmindedly rolled up his sleeve or used the hem of his shirt to wipe yoghurt off of Em's face, and Oliver would slap his shirt back down and say, "I'm fine," or, "Oh, yeah, just hit my stupid door-knob this morning again," and Rosa would look worried for only a moment, but Oliver would smile, and so she would believe him.

You'd think that this type of thing would take place when the individual is in a state of hysteria, crying and hyperventilating and rocking back and forth in a state of uncontrollable panic, but really, when Oliver felt his blood swell and bruise in the places he squeezed as hard as he could, all he felt was calm. Because he was feeling but not feeling. Because he was real and there and alive. Because the pain and the bruises were his own solid proof of that.

Oliver only stopped when he realised he could hear talking.

" _I don't want to be a doctor,"_ his mother said. She was reading Em a bedtime story. _"I don't want to be a soldier dressed in a bullet-proof suit, muscular and dark and deciding what to shoot. I don't want to be a ninja, sneaking all around, and I don't want to be a king. I don't even want his crown."_ She paused, and Oliver knew she'd smiled and gently flicked Em's nose because the little boy giggled. Oliver knew the bedtime story by heart, and he was whispering along with her. . . _"Well that's fine with me. But, say, what do you want to be? Can I be a dancer? What about a vet? Maybe I can even run a restaurant? You, my darling, can be whatever you want, for real, forever, or just pretend, it wouldn't bother me... Great. Fantastic. That's fabulous you see. I've thought about it lots and lots, and this is what I'd like to be... I'd like to be a milkman. I'd like to be the dog. I'd like to be a cricket bat. I'd like to be a frog. I'd like to bounce and hop and flop and jump up to the moon. I want to dance on chimney tops and hum my favourite tune. It would be fun to sail the ocean, or maybe live in a shoe. But I think I might get lonely. And I think I might miss you. I'd like to be a squirrel, or a cow, or a cat. What do you think about that...? I'd love you just as much as a doctor, or living in a shoe, and if you get lonely, why, I'd simply come along, too... I'd like to be a lion, gorging on my feast. I want to be a flower, I might even be a priest. It's hard to choose, there are many things I'd like to choose to be. So I think I'll try them one by one. But, for now. . ."_

Oliver turned over and pulled his comforter up over his face, closing his eyes, slowing his breath.

" _. . ._ _I'll just be me."_

* * *

 **Notes**

The poem was pretty much just a gender swapped version of, "I don't want to be a ballerina" by Ruth Bushi. I don't really know much about her or her work, just that the poem was on YouTube and does **NOT** belong to me, and all its rights and whatever go to R. Bushi.

The self harm hasn't been just a sudden fluke idea. It's been hinted at since the start. How Oliver kept his hand pressed to the burning rail, and how he didn't take his vest off when he jumped not to show his bruises, etc. And I'm not making him like this because I think it's _cute_ or _quirky._ Because I know it's not. Also, it is gonna play a part in how the story plays out, and it'll probably get pretty morbid at some points, but nothing terribly severe.

I'm guessing that this will be around thirty or so chapters long, with a word count between 2,000 to 7-8,000 per chapter (will vary. They usually start out at around 2,000 words and then more words come in and just fillfillfill!) I'm not sure. I've never actually _finished_ anything I've written, like, ever, and I'm hoping really hard that I like Oliver enough to finish this. _Really_ finish this. So, if you want that to happen sooner then tell me what you think so far :) xxx

Also, just a heads up, I'm planning on bringing the following characters into this, too:  
Enid (major side character)  
Ron (a little)  
Hershel (a little)  
Lori  
Shane  
Daryl (like, one tiny scene)

Tell me what you thought xxx it helps a buckets x

 **Preview: "Taco Bell" It's Judith's birthday, and Oliver's not feeling very well, but he gets an unexpected and slightly startling visit, and much to his dismay, and with Taco Bell bribery, he supposes he'll have to go. (cute Caliver moments, and a certain suggested scene from BloodGutsandChocolatePudding that I'm kind of dying about xD)**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	10. Part 2: Taco Bell

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Hahaha I adore you. Ugh. X

 **RIGGSSIVAN** Aw, Gosh, don't fall behind on your homework for this! Ahahahaha! You're so awesome! THANK YOU!

 **Biter two** God, thank you so much x) I'm still waiting for you to answer my message over on The Walking Dead FF as it is the ONLY place I can actually contact you! Ugh. Get an account here. This site is so cool! xxx

* * *

 **"Colours" by Halsey (thank you BloodGutsandChcoloatePuddingxxxx)**

* * *

It was Judith's birthday.

Four weeks and one day left of school.  
Fourteen weeks and four days until the end of summer.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 10:41am  
** **Subject: Are you dead?**

Where are you?!

* * *

Oliver skipped school.  
It was 2:00PM now.  
He was still in bed.

 _I'll get up,_ he told himself, and had been telling himself for seven hours now. _Soon. Just... not yet._

Sunday's shift went fine. Dale taught Oliver how to work the tills, and during his lunch break he'd gone with Beth to her farm house to collect manure for the fertilizer. Oliver had to shovel the horse crap with her, which, despite how gross it was, actually turned out to be pretty fun. The farm part, not the shit-shovelling part. He liked Beth's house. He liked Nervous Nelly–one of her horses, and he liked her family. Hershel, her father, a clean shaven old man with white hair and a farmer's tan that you couldn't help but listen to when he spoke. There was her mother, Annette, who made sandwiches and lemonade, and Oliver and Beth ate on the porch banister with the land and big corn barn in the distance, talking about music and society and global warming and that weird sickness scare about four years ago that turned out to be just a big elaborate hoax. There was a Farm Hand, Otis, and his wife, Patricia. Beth also had a half-brother and half-sister, who both had moved out by now. Her brother, Shawn, lived in Florida with his girlfriend, and her sister, Maggie, lived in Atlanta with her husband, Glenn, who Oliver quickly figured out was Ellie Rhee's older brother, and that he'd been in their home the day of the pizza bike stealing incident. Which, coincidently, used to be the place that he actually worked. When Oliver was half-bullied into admitting it, Hershel patted him on the back –"Ha! Glenn hated that place. Serves that sorry son of a gun right."

At the end of that shift, while Oliver was walking home from the Florist, he stopped in his tracks when he saw none other than Carl Grimes waiting for him sat on a fence post, like some fucking Casanova apparition that might sprout wings and a halo, or horns, Oliver wasn't quite sure. He had to focus on not thinking too much, sort of stood there, and so Carl climbed off the fence and smiled, all Casanova-apparition-angel-may-be-devil-like, and said, "I was on a run." Because of course, Carl Grimes worked out. "Timing matched up. Figured I'd wait for you." Oliver had been emailing him pretty much all of that day, and once he remembered where he'd left his tongue, and he trusted it enough not to jump out of him and do a number of x-rated things to the boy in front of him, he asked, "Did you run all the way here?" because his own calves were still aching from the day before, and Carl shrugged, patted Jenny's head –Oliver hadn't even noticed her until then– and said, "Jen needed to get out of the house, too," and then when Oliver didn't reply, Carl added, "I bought more M&M's," and so the two boys sat on the fence post and shared the coloured candy together.

But anyway, right now Oliver was at home.

Rosa had taken Em to school that morning before going out of town to Linden for a presentation-thing in raising awareness for Meningitis, which she did on the occasion in schools around Georgia. It was how she'd gotten her job at King County, for her success in charity work. Rosa's brother, Abel, whom Patrick's middle name came from, had died over thirty years ago from the disease. Rosa was fourteen at the time, still living in Italy, and she'd started the charity _NoticingIt_ in 2002 eleven years after moving to America to raise awareness. It was something she was passionate about, and Oliver couldn't deny that he was proud of her.

But none of this was helping him get up today.

Sometimes Oliver found it hard to get out of bed in the morning, and even now, well past morning, the very thought of moving made him sick with anxiety. Some days he could ignore it and get on with his life, but days like today; days after months of _getting on with it,_ it was too much, and so he chirped, "See you, Mom!" as she left with Em to keep her oblivious, and then ducked his head under the comforter and pushed the whole world away.

 _Skipping one day,_ he thought to try and settle himself, _it's not a big deal._ _ **It is.**_ _I can afford one day._ _ **You can't.**_ _It'll be fine._ _ **It won't.**_ The trouble was, though, Oliver didn't care anymore.

Depression.

His father had already labelled him by it, loosely, joking about it over supper once. Oliver wasn't stupid enough to try to deny it. But, despite his father's diagnosis, the man had never actually _done_ anything about it. _"_ _It'll would pass, buddy. Man up,"_ he'd told him once when Oliver walked into the kitchen looking unintentionally miserable. His father asked him what was wrong, and Oliver believed that he would actually care, and then his father said that to him. It was something he'd never say to a client, ever. He'd get fired. But to Oliver–because Oliver was exempt to every other human being on the planet according to his father, it was a case of, _"_ _giving it time. Because you'll get over yourself. It's a phase and every teenager goes through it."_ Like it didn't count just because Oliver was young and had the _my dad's a shrink_ card.

He hated it. Feeling like this. It was like sitting in a glass box that he couldn't find a way to get out of. It'd started filling with water years ago, slowly, and Oliver felt and ignored every drop, tried not to think about it, he had to, and he could see everyone else on the outside, not trapped, not noticing his glass box, not fighting to breathe, and as much as he tried not to be, he was afraid. He was afraid of the day that there wouldn't be any air left. He was afraid of the day that he would just be _there,_ underwater, under _everything._ In all honesty, he already was.

Oliver was _drowning.  
_ But he wasn't dead.

He didn't know how he felt about that part.

But anyway, Oliver took things in steps on days like this.  
He had to.

Step 1. Listen to music.  
Step 2. Pull your head above the covers.  
Step 3. Check the time.  
Step 4. Lie on your back.  
Step 5. Turn the music up.  
Step 6. Read a book.  
Step 7. Turn the music up, again.  
Step 8. Try not to think about it. _It_ being _everything making you feel like this_ – which was hard, sometimes, because often, Oliver had no idea.  
Step 9. Sit up.  
Step 10. Breathe.  
Step 11. Set your feet on the floor and put your hands on something flat.  
Step 12. Breathe some more.  
Step 13. Don't pinch.  
Step 14. Stand up.  
Step 15. If step 14 didn't work, don't pinch and turn the music up.  
Step 16. Breathe.  
Step 17. Stand up.  
Step 18. Repeat step 16 if step 17 didn't work, if it did, good.  
Step 19. Breathe.  
Step 20. If you didn't pinch, go eat chocolate.

After seven and a half hours, Oliver was only just ready to move on to step nine. Step nine was one of the hardest steps. He held his comic book, focussed on his music playing through his ear-buds. He brought his elbows up behind him, thought about pushing the rest of him to sit up, finally. But the music stopped, suddenly, and a name flashed on his touch screen.

 _Carl Grimes  
_ _Calling..._

Oliver hung up the call, both regretting and relieved at the same time. But it called again.

 _Carl Grimes  
_ _Calling..._

Carl hung up this time when it went to voicemail. Sent a text:

 _Carl Grimes:  
_ _i'm here :D_

Oliver's breath froze. "What?" The doorbell rang.

 _Carl Grimes:  
_ _i suggest you quit jerking off and answer the door_

Then a few seconds later:

 _Carl Grimes:  
_ _we're going to Taco Bell._

Again, the doorbell rang. "Shit." This was definitely terrifying enough for Oliver to get up now, for such an adrenaline rush isn't possible to ride out without using your feet. So Oliver threw on his flannel and tried to neaten his hair in the mirror. His eyes were sunken and had dark circles under them, and his hair, like always, defied the statistical proof that gravity even existed.

Again, the doorbell.  
"Shit, shit, shit, shit."

He opened the door, and there, stood before him on his front porch, was Carl Grimes. Carl's eyes widened, the blue smacking Oliver around the retina. His skin was clean and freckly and pale, his hair neat and perfectly floppy-brown-Casenova-appiration-like. The usual turn-Oliver's-brain-to-mud way. He was wearing a long sleeve grey top and some dark jeans with splotchy bleach marks on the knees –Oliver had learnt that it was an art accident a while back. Occasionally, Carl would carry a ball point pen behind his ear, and Oliver could see the pointy end of it sticking out of a tuft of brown. His stomach knotted. His mouth dried up.

 _Shit._

Carl's mouth was moving, but Oliver only heard Fall Out Boy, then suddenly realised he still had his ear buds in and ripped them out. "W-what?"

Carl sighed, frowning and crossing his arms. "You know, I'm actually a little disappointed that you don't have a raging hard-on right now."

" _Dude!_ "

"I'm kidding," Carl said, and he gestured, chucking his chin. Oliver nodded, didn't realise what he'd consented to until Carl stepped inside. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge. The light inside made him glow, and Oliver could hear the choir. "Want a sandwich?"

"Uh. No," Oliver said, then cocked an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"I don't like sandwiches," he said, and Oliver didn't know how that was possible, furthermore, he didn't know how Carl apparently didn't realise how socially peculiar he was being; turning up at Oliver's house with mere seconds notice, inviting himself inside, offering to make food. He was like Penelope. The next thing he knew he'd be doing laundry with Rosa. "I was just making conversation," Carl said, shrugged, and he turned to Oliver, looked him up and down. "You're wearing pyjamas."

Oliver wondered if that'd been another attempt at starting conversation. Either way, he didn't bite. He swam right past. He didn't have an explanation that would make any sense.

"It's the afternoon," Carl added, his voice casual.

Oliver remained mute.

"Are you sick?"

Oliver rubbed the back of his head, tried to flatten several cow-licks in vein. Oliver had so many that he was convinced that an entire herd must pass through his bedroom ever night with him noticing. "What're you doing here, Carl?"

"I emailed you," he said, like it was a good enough reason, "and texted." He closed the fridge and walked over, flicked his finger inside Oliver's sleeve, pulled. "C'mon, we're going to Taco Bell."

"You're supposed to be at school, and grounded."

"So are you."

They were at the foot of the staircase. Carl crossed his arms and turned around, studied Oliver for a moment that made Oliver step back and bring his arms up around himself, feeling small and self-conscious and stupid in his Batman pyjama bottoms. "Carl."

"Yeah."

"You're staring."

"I know. It's called passive aggressive coaxing."

He couldn't quite make himself look Carl in the eye. He was looking at the cupboard door. The cupboard had always been far more inviting–quite literally. He asked it, "Where'd you learn that from?"

"Sophia's mom," Carl said. "She can be terrifying."

Oliver was grinning at the cupboard, mumbled to it, "I'm afraid I might be running out of rebellion."

"Then get dressed," Carl said. "I'll take you to a place where it comes in infinite supplies."

"Taco Bell has an infinite supply of rebellion?"

Carl grinned, shrugged. "Grab your machete." Oliver was pretty sure that Carl had actually said _inhaler_ rather than _machete._ But whatever. "We'll go find out."

"I'm falling in like with you," Oliver wanted to say, but it came out as, "I gotta finish my comic," instead. There was no logic behind being hormonal, or a teenager, or a boy. It was all just about hoping you didn't trip over your own legs, and using the term _man_ and _dude_ and _bro_ at the right points during conversations, and hiding superhumanly relentless erections at the most inexplicable moments–thankfully not right now though.

Carl shrugged. "Jerking off's a better excuse."

Oliver was laughing, really, just on the outside it looked more like frowning. Carl frowned right back. Oliver wondered if he was laughing inside, too. Doubted it.

"Let's go."

In truth, if Oliver was given the option between getting invited back stage to meet Vance Joy and was allowed to read over his shoulder the lyrics to songs nobody had ever been blessed to hear yet, or go to Taco Bell with Carl Grimes and Carl Grimes only, during school. . . he was already waiting in Taco Bell. He was already waiting there with rose petals leading up to their table and scented candles lit on the window sill. Carl had already asked Oliver to sleep over his house so that they could have their movie marathon sometime. Oliver thought he would keel over just thinking about it, and they'd decided to watch Maze Runner, Percy Jackson, and as many episodes of Supernatural Season 4 as they could stay awake through. The idea of sitting next to Carl for hours in a dimly lit bedroom huddled under layers of blankets that smelt like him watching Runners and Olympians and Ghost Hunters was just about the most mentally-convulsing and body-shivering thing Oliver had ever fantasized over, and so he needed time to prepare himself for whenever the event would take place. Taco Bell seemed like a good idea. The only thing that bothered Oliver was that a restaurant would have an entire table between them. Just a pillow sounded more preferable, or maybe just the space between them if the pillow wasn't there, or maybe no space at all. Maybe just a few layers of clothing. . . No, actually, just no clothing at all.

Oliver stopped thinking about insanely attractive fictional characters and removing layers of Carl's clothing with his teeth and went and got dressed, layering on twice as much deodorant as usual to mask the _I-haven't-washed-in-over-twenty-four-hours_ smell, until he was sat in Carl's car. He saw the very last few stale M&M's on the floor from the other day, looking rather dirty and crushed, and he was staring at them. The engine hadn't started up yet, and Oliver looked at Carl, eyebrows climbing when he saw him staring again. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Carl asked him.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I just don't think you are sometimes." Carl suddenly looked like he didn't mean to say that. He swallowed, and Oliver turned back to the crushed M&M's, gritted his teeth. . .

"Then quit thinking about it, Carl."

* * *

The drive was in quiet.  
Like usual, the quiet was messing with him.

Without a word, Carl flipped the stereo on, let Oliver pick the channel, and Oliver was fairly sure that he'd just downgraded Jesus Christ himself. He chose the news channel. A few months ago Oliver was taking the bus to one of his mom's _NoticingIt_ campaigns with Em. There was a man and a woman in the seats across. The woman; light brown skin and black curly hair up in a bun, seemed sad about something. The guy; a larger man with darker skin and buzz-cut black curly hair and a dark grey beanie similar to Oliver's, told her, _"_ _It's our duty to keep up with what's happening and what's going on in the world. To face it, keep our eyes open._ " He tucked the woman under his arm and she sighed into his chest, listening, " _Like Dad said, Sasha, it's called payin' the high cost o' livin'."_ And so, even by these months later, the stranger's testimony had stuck with Oliver, so he listened to the news, he tried to keep up with what was happening and what was going on. He paid the bill.

"Drive-thru or eat in?"

It'd been so long since anyone physically inside the car had said anything that Oliver startled. The male, British, news reporter who had been talking about some terrible domestic catastrophe about a man who'd gone mad and murdered his whole family, cut them up and ate them. "Huh?"

"We'll eat in," Carl decided.

Oliver bought a large taco, a serving of cinnamon twist and a root beer. Carl was just waiting for his order; the same, only, fruit punch. Along with sandwiches, Carl hated root beer, which Oliver quite frankly thought was a disgrace to their country. Oliver was sipping on his root beer, watching under his hair.

Carl's jaw clench when he was thinking,. The muscles rippled across his cheek. Oliver wondered what that would feel like against his palm, or face... or tongue. He watched him blink. Blink. Blink–blink. Carl blinked a lot for a guy. Then again, Oliver wasn't really sure how often guys were supposed to blink. Or if guys were supposed to have a set amount of blinking leverage for each day anyway. It probably didn't matter. No, in fact, it totally didn't. Not to mention that if it did then it still wouldn't matter because Carl blinking was a totally aesthetically pleasing thing to witness, somehow. _Is that even a thing?_ Oliver wondered. _Aesthetically pleasing blinkers?_ Probably not. But then again Carl could make anything aesthetically pleasing. He could wash dishes and it still would be. He could shovel horse shit and it still would be. Oliver was starting to realise that aesthetically pleasing might not've been the right term. That maybe _Jelly-gut inducing_ , or _mind-liquidating_ was.

But then Carl was taking his order, smiling charismatically-Grimesly at the gooey-eyed till girl, and Oliver was looking away because he needed to get back to the whole, _Oh, I was just eating. Not watching you. No, not at all,_ thing.

When Carl came over and took a seat, setting his tray down, he looked at Oliver for a second, his brow knitted to make a deep line in the centre of his eyebrows, like his father's, only, Rick had about six hundred of them there. Oliver ate a bite of his taco, thinking, _See? See? I'm eating! See? SEE?!_

"Skipped school when I realised you weren't coming in, um, so, yeah," Carl said, ending a little awkwardly. But he picked himself up, pointing a cinnamon twist. "You're not skipping Judy's party." Of course Oliver hadn't forgotten to buy Judith's birthday present. He'd gotten the bouquet yesterday from work. Bright pink coronations. Currently, they were in Carl's car, wilting most likely, but it was only for a little while. "We're still making her a cake, too. And our meal."

 _Our. Our, our, our._ God, Oliver _really_ liked it when Carl said that about the two of them. He could hear Carl's right leg rocking side to side under the table, see the slight jolt of his hips against his seat opposite, making his elbows nudge on the table either side of his tray. Shaking his leg was a tic of Carl's. Oliver was pretty sure that it wasn't a nervous tic, just a habitual one. Within minutes of sitting down his right leg would be shaking back and forth more hazardously than Em on e-numbers.

Oliver was frowning, watching, sipping. "You're not really asking me anymore," he criticised once he swallowed. Carl was eating a cinnamon twist, and he looked into Oliver's eyes, and Oliver thought about the purpose of unnecessary eye contact and why he liked it so much, like he liked the word _our,_ like he liked hearing Carl say his name, like he liked saying _his_ name.

"Oliver."

 _You little fucker._

"Carl."

Carl smiled, all freckly and charismatically. "Are you still going to help me tonight?" and Oliver rolled his eyes, taking a large bite out of his taco, nodding. Carl grinned. "Thanks."

Oliver took another bite from his taco when he was thinking too much about Carl's grin. It wasn't so much that he thought that he shouldn't be, because he'd come to realise –literally– that he simply really, really, _really_ liked to think about it. It was more a case that now wasn't the time. Right now he had to focus on sarcastic come backs and nonchalant body language and the perfect amount of surliness for it to be funny but not offensive, rather than fantasising over what it would feel like to take Carl's grin in his mouth just because he really, really, _really_ liked the idea of it.

After a while Carl started doodling on his napkin. He'd alternate between eating and sketching, taking short glances, at Oliver, Oliver realised eventually. At first Oliver would look away like it was him being caught, and Carl would keep doodling and eating and glancing, until Oliver realised. . .

"Are you drawing me?"

Carl nodded, studying Oliver's face for a moment. Eyes narrowed. Oliver felt naked, as odd as it sounds, and when he asked why he was being drawn Carl said, "I like your under-bite," to the drawing, and Oliver laughed nervously, stopped when Carl snapped his eyes up. They were wide, suddenly. Wide and blue and– "I-I mean – no. I like _drawing_ it," Carl corrected himself. "It–it's a challenge." Oliver frowned, and didn't mean to try to pull his jaw into his back a little. "No, not in a bad way," Carl said then. "Um. Like... like your eyes. I keep wondering what colours I'd use to paint them."

"You'd paint them?"

"No," Carl said a little too quickly, "I mean if I was going to."

"Wouldn't you just use brown?" Oliver asked after a moment.

Carl shook his head. He almost looked offended. "What's brown though?"

"Erm, what?"

"Brown can be any brown," Carl said, and his Southern drawl came out in full force. "Brown can be dull brown like mud, dark like charcoal, light like Judith's hair. Or redder, like brick. Your brown isn't _just_ brown. It'd have to be a particular type of brown. Like, mahogany brown or somethin', and to make the right gold flecky-parts I'd probably use a little bit o' silver, too, with the yellows, maybe even mix other colours."

Oliver was pretty sure Carl was over-thinking this, vastly. But he sure as hell couldn't say he wasn't enjoying it. "What else about my eyes then?" he asked. Flirting? _Probably._ No. _Most definitely._

"Your eyes?" Carl asked, and his right eyebrow was up high, his other stooped down low. "Well, they're, like, kinda bigger than they look, you know?"

"No." Oliver narrowed them just to prove it, messing with him. Carl rolled his eyes. Oliver thought about one of his own blue flannels; watching it rolling around in the dryer when he was bored. He thought of the noise it made. Loud enough that it could shake him on top of it. _Bulue-bulue-bulue-bulue!_ Was it normal to make colour songs out of drying machine noises? _Definitely not._

"I just mean there's more to drawing a person than you think at first," Carl said. "There's more to _seeing_ a person than just looking at them. It's kinda surprising."

Oliver kept watching him draw, tried to tilt his head enough to see, but Carl kept telling him to sit properly so that he could draw him right. "What's surprised you this time?" Oliver asked when he got impatient.

"About drawing you?" Carl spoke into the sketch, murmuring a little, like he wasn't really focussing too much on the talking so much as the drawing. "Well you... you've got... kind of a crooked smile. And your lips are kinda thin, but, like, they're super expressive, you know? They'll twitch to one side if you're trying not to smile, or they'll press together if you're nervous. It's cool."

Oliver couldn't help the red in his cheeks, the stretch of his mouth, sprouting right across his face. Carl seemed to come to or something, because he snapped his head up, drew in a breath and sat up straight, shaking his head a little. There was an awkward pause. Oliver was aware of the hormones in it. He'd be stupid not to. And whether they were just from himself or from the both of them, he was too insecure to predict with any confidence, but for once he didn't feel like a freak for it. For once it just made him smirk and want it to keep going. Like it didn't really count here, sat in Taco Bell with taco still in his mouth. So he grinned and pushed himself backwards, dramatically flinging an arm over his head and throwing his chin up. "Jack?" he said casually.

Carl laughed, "What?"

"I want you to draw me like one of your French girls."

" _Shh_!" Carl snorted through his nose and shook his head. Oliver sat up properly, chuckling. But then Carl started laughing, too. Belly laughing. Laughing so hard that they both had to take a moment to settle themselves. Oliver crossed his arms on the table and dipped his head to bite a cinnamon twist, ate it without using his hands. Carl snorted, "You're so..."

In that moment Oliver braced himself for what Carl would call him. He anticipated the word – the accusation. Braced for the awkward silence that would follow, the sting that he would pretend to ignore, the suspicion that would narrow Carl's eyes when Oliver wouldn't be able to bring himself to argue.

 _Go on,_ he thought. _Say it... Be that guy and get it over with._

 _Ga–  
_ "Gross!"

He grabbed a cinnamon twists and threw it, aiming for Oliver's chest, but the older caught it. "Thanks," Oliver grinned, placing the cinnamon twist between his teeth. "I try."

"Wait," Carl said suddenly. His pencil shot up. "Stay like that."

Oliver did, freezing, but he kept laughing, and his eyebrows would arch and Carl would laugh and keep sketching. Finally, when Oliver was almost drooling from the cinnamon twist that he still hadn't been able to devour yet, Carl slapped his pen down. Oliver inhaled the twist. "Can I see it?"

Carl made a noise, like, _Oh. Shit. I didn't think we'd get this far,_ but nodded anyway, tucking his pen behind his ear and twisting the napkin around. "Here."

Oliver looked, at himself, saw the sketched moment of prolonged awkwardacy and persistent amusement, his brow arched, his cheeks and lips stretched wide, under-bite pinching the cinnamon twist between his teeth, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"Whoa..."

Oliver was fast realising that there wasn't really much else to say when you looked at something Carl had created. It just was _whoa._ Everything made in his hand simply couldn't not be. Carl was just _whoa-_ worthy. Simple as.

"I was gonna draw you with scales, too, but, I was worried you'd be offended."

Oliver pushed the napkin back, brought his eyes up. He was so impressed that every sarcastic come back fluttered away like leaves on a windy day. Carl smiled, taking the silence as a compliment, and Oliver rubbed his forehead, thinking and trying not to think but thinking more because he simply couldn't help it.

"Where'd you get those?" Carl said, and Oliver didn't have enough time to pull his arm away before he'd tugged Oliver's sleeve down far enough to show his forearm. "Did you fall or somethin'?"

"Hey, quit it!" Oliver flinched, and Carl stopped when he saw how many bruises were really there, his expression dropping. Oliver tried to remain casual, pulling his sleeve back to cover them, and his shoulders bunched as he crossed his arms over the table, but he cleared his throat, looked around and pretended to people-watch.

"Oli–"

"Have you thought of what you'll do for your art final yet?"

"Um." Oliver saw the same creases on his forehead as Rick's again, hidden under his fringe that had bunched backwards slightly while he'd been drawing–Carl had a habit of resting his forehead in his hand while he drew. If he drew long and hard enough, he would unknowingly bunch his fringe all the way back to stick up above his face. Oliver didn't look at him even though Carl 1. hadn't answered, and 2. hadn't stopped looking at him. . . "Oliver?"

"Yeah, man," Oliver said, but didn't wait to listen. "Hey, does the Sociology test in two weeks count for thirty percent or thirty-five percent of our final grade?"

"Thirty-two."

Oliver forced a scoff. "Of course."

"Oliver."

Oliver brought his hand up to his own mouth, covered it for a second, as if it would stop Carl from talking, and when he realised it was useless he bit his fingernails instead. "Hmm?" he mumbled, hearing the sharp snap of keratin and tooth.

"Are you okay?"

"You asked me that already today."

"No," Carl said then, softly, and he sat forward, slowly and carefully, his mouth open a little, sort of taking a moment to push his words out of him, and his eyebrows arched as he did, "I mean... are you _really_ okay?"

Oliver inhaled uncomfortably, shrugged, smiled, "I'm just tired, man."

Carl's eyes narrowed, like he was getting closer, but in his focus rather than actually moving closer, like if he narrowed his eyes enough then maybe the blue would manage to needle it's way right inside of someone – inside of _Oliver._ Oliver didn't know if he wanted to feel self-conscious or just some kind of irritable-gratefulness. To be honest, he was pretty taken aback that Carl was even trying like this, but then, what the younger teenager asked him next took Oliver off guard, completely. . .

"Tired of what?"

Oliver wasn't sure how to respond to that. The conversation had suddenly gotten serious again, like it had in the car. _What am_ I _tired of?_ he thought, shrugged. Then thought harder. . . _I'm tired of the quiet. I'm tired of missing and not missing my family. I'm tired of not wanting to wake up in the morning. I'm tired of hurting myself._

 _I'm tired of me.  
_

". . . I'm just tired, man."

Carl watched him, but then nodded and ate a cinnamon twist. "Okay," he said pensively, breathing it. "I don't believe you, but, okay."

Ignoring the rock in his throat and that familiar itch to escape himself, and ignoring the way he suddenly craved to spill everything he was thinking all over the boy in front of him like spewing out rainbow yack all over the place, Oliver asked,."What does the 'J' stand for?"

"Huh?"

"In your emaihh addrhhsh," Oliver muffled, because he was cramming taco and cinnamon twists into his mouth, afraid that if he didn't he'd say something he regretted. Like the food was his filter. Like it would only let the questions that were appropriate out of him. Carl looked a little startled. But Oliver knew he looked less startled than he would look if any of the shit he actually wanted to say was coming out of him instead. "It's C J Grhhmes. What's thuh J fuhr?"

"Oh. My middle name."

Oliver took a moment to swallow everything, glad that the rainbow yacking feeling had dulled again. "No _shit,_ Sherlock."

Carl laughed. He hadn't drank his fruit punch yet, so he tore the end of the wrapper off his straw and blew into it, shooting Oliver in the eyeball.

Oliver grunted, swatting it away. "Ass!"

Carl drank, then looked up. "Jeffrey."

" _Jeffrey?_ " Oliver said, and was grinning, laughing. " _That's_ your middle name?" Carl narrowed his eyes. "Isn't your uncle called Jeffrey?" Nod. "You're named after him?"

"No. I'm named after my great grandpa."

"Whinny's dad?" Carl nodded, smiling like he hadn't thought Oliver would remember all of that. Oliver wanted to impress him even more: "The soldier."

"It's actually a pretty cool story."

Oliver cocked an eyebrow, "Didn't seem like you thought so when she was telling it."

Carl shrugged. "I've heard it a hundred times. Gets old."

Oliver smiled for a moment. "Oh," he said, "and just so it's out there, De isn't my middle name."

Carl smirked, "Fabiano, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"Sophia," they both said at the same time, grinning.

Carl's grin faded after a while. "She likes you, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she wants to cut you up into little pieces and feed you to the living dead," Carl said sarcastically. "What do you think I mean, moron?"

"You don't need to get mad at me."

"I'm not," Carl said, but for some reason Oliver didn't believe him.

"How do you know anyway?" he asked after a moment. "And wouldn't she kinda want it to be a secret?"

"She's not exactly trying to be subtle. It's amazing you _don't_ know."

Oliver shrugged. Honestly, this really was news to him. "I'm not good with that stuff."

"But, you've, you know..."

"Had sex?" Carl nodded, and Oliver laughed. "Yeah with my best friend."

"Penelope?" Carl frowned, and Oliver suddenly felt awkward, nodding dubiously. "Okay, well, now you have to tell me," Carl demanded. "C'mon. Spill."

"Erm. No?"

"Oh, c'mon!"

" _Shh!_ "

"You know about me throwing up on someone's boobs!" He settled when an old woman huffed at him at the table behind, and she and her husband got up and left the restaurant, taking their milkshakes with them.

"I didn't know about the boob part," Oliver mumbled when he looked back at Carl, nibbling his last cinnamon twist.

Carl blushed. "Well now you do. So tell me."

Oliver sighed and narrowed his eyes. Carl mimicked him. "Fine," the older grumbled. "I was fifteen. She was sixteen. We were at a house party. Pat's friends. We were drunk, um, _really_ drunk, and it just happened. It was cold and wet and messy and just a big mistake, and _not_ okay, and we didn't talk about it for months, not until I kind of just... yelled at her how sorry I was, and she just hugged me and told me she didn't blame me. Then it was fine for a while."

"What – that like your strategy or something?"

"What?" Oliver murmured.

"Getting us drunk first," Carl said, and Oliver scowled, guilt stabbing him in the gut so brutally that he held his breath. Carl sat forward carefully, serious, said under his breath, "You keep underestimating my memory, Oliver."

"I'm so sorry," Oliver told him. He was fidgeting, his cheeks and neck burning with remorse. "I-I didn't realise you were drunk until... until after the kiss."

Rule number 1. Never speak of it again. _Broken._ No, _shattered_ into a million pieces. Oliver could hear the shimmering noise of it scattering across the floor. The imaginary sound trickled through him like rushing insects. He could hear them ticking. Ticking and shattering and shimmering and scattering.

"I know," Carl said, and Oliver saw the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. It confused him so much it was dizzying. "Anyway, I wasn't... I wasn't all that drunk." Carl stopped when Oliver inhaled, either by choice or interruption, he wasn't sure.

"Still doesn't make what happened right," Oliver said, and he wasn't sure if he was _only_ talking about the drunk part. Neither was Carl, it seemed, because he suddenly looked like he'd been slapped, his pale, freckled cheeks flushing. He looked away. Oliver was going to explain that he meant in terms of consent rather than, well, the fact that they were both, you know... _boys._ But 1. he was too awkward to get it out, and 2. too guilty, and 3. Carl spoke before he could:

"So..."

 _Are you into guys?_

"For a while?"

It seemed that Oliver _really_ had a habit of incorrectly guessing what Carl would say. Everything that left his mouth was unpredictable. It was terrifying. But it was kind of admirable, too. Because you couldn't read Carl. One moment you'd think you knew him, understood what he might be thinking, and then he'd go and say something like that. "Huh?"

"You said things were okay between you and Penelope, _'for a while.'_ "

"Oh, um..."

Carl's brow rose. "You screwed again?"

"It wasn't _screwing_ ," Oliver hissed.

"Then what was it?" Carl asked. "Making love – all that sap?"

Oliver scowled. " _No._ "

"Friends with benefits."

Oliver nodded after a moment, even though it wasn't a question, figuring it was the best description of his and Penelope's relationship back then, though, he still wished he could think of a less stigmatised phrase.

"Less messy this time, I'm guessing?" Carl went on, and even though he was joking around Oliver wondered if he could really see the small disheartened bite in Carl's voice. He would smile, all charismatically and _Carl-ly,_ but it would falter after a moment and he would have to think it onto his face all over again.

"It was –like– a year later," Oliver admitted, "and yes, less messy. Um. Sober, too, so, you know, valid consent." Carl nodded seriously, so Oliver added, "and, again, it sort of just happened."

"What's she up to now?"

"College. Some advanced creative writing course. She's good, too. Writing. _Really_ good."

Carl waited a moment to ask his next question. . .

"D'you miss her?"

"Yeah," Oliver said, "like, so much that it hurts."

Carl's eyes travelled Oliver's face, his hair and his eyebrows and his eyes and nose. Oliver felt every shift. Its curiosity. Its pensiveness. It's suppressed _somethingness. . ._

"D'you love her?"

"No," Oliver shook his head this time, carefully, then stopped, thought. "Well, yeah." For a split second, Carl's brow twitched, and he stopped looking at Oliver's face. Oliver felt it. The hard and cold _wrench_ as eye contact was broken and refused. "But not _love_ love," Oliver went on with explaining, and Carl looked back at him again. Oliver heard it. The eye contact. Its _snap_ and its _crackle_ and its _splurge,_ like milk being poured into _coco pops._ "And she doesn't love me either. It's not like that... _We're_ not. I'm... I'm not sure how to explain it – how Penelope and I work... and how we _worked_ when we were doing that stuff."

"You don't anymore?"

Oliver shook his head, noting that Carl hadn't called it anything at all this time. "No, it sort of stopped. Only happened a few times anyway." Carl's brow cocked. "Okay, like, a little more than just a few times, and, it was fun, while it lasted. But, I dunno, we were never... _into_ each other, you know?" Oliver believed Carl when he nodded, really, _really_ believed him. "We just... don't work like that. Like, we fit up here." Oliver pointed to his head. "But, you know, not, down here..."

Carl smirked at where Oliver was pointing, nodded, looked up again. "It's kinda cool. You know, that you're both still friends."

Oliver took a breath, sipping his root beer. He felt oddly relieved. He wasn't really sure why. "So..." he said after a while, "can I hear it?"

"What?"

"The _pretty cool_ story about your great grandpa Jeffrey in the war?"

Carl was about to spill, but suddenly stopped, stared out the window. Then, before Oliver knew what had happened, Carl's palm came up and almost collided with the centre of his face. Oliver startled, ducking.

"Don't move," Carl hushed him.

So Oliver didn't–mostly because he was kind of terrified. Carl was staring past him out the window, and Oliver saw his eyes suddenly widen. The blue in them made a _whoosh_ ing noise in his head. "Ca – _Hnuck!_ " He was yanked under the table. "Dude!"

"Shh!"

"What the...?!"

"Shh!" Carl clamped his hand over Oliver's mouth, holing him under the table. Oliver yanked his face away, grimacing and frowning and palpitating. "Sorry. Jus' – shh." Oliver did, until Carl pit his hand down, sighing. "Jesus."

"Can I stand up now?"

"Uh. Yeah."

The two climbed out from under the table. Old miserable lunch-eaters gave them dirty looks before continuing their meal. Carl ignored them. He was looking out the window like he'd just seen a herd of zebra gallop past, and he sighed with relief, like, _It's-lucky-that-none-of-those-zebra-found-their-way-in-here-huh?_ Oliver pulled at his beanie, straightening his clothes, aware that he was missing something here.

"And why the hell did you just do that?"

"A cop car just drove by."

"So?"

"If anybody from the office saw me they'd rat back to my dad."

Oliver's expression fell, "Oh, shit. Did they see us?"

"It was Leon. Guy's pretty clueless at the best of times."

"What about your car?"

"I think we're good," Carl said, and was panting a little. He turned to Oliver. "What's the time?"

Oliver checked his wrist, suddenly remembered that he'd broken his watch, and so pulled Lizzie's out of his pocket. Didn't miss the cocked eyebrow from Carl at him for the grubby, pink, children's jewellery, mumbling, "Broke my watch," self-consciously, and Carl grinned a kind of grin that told Oliver he didn't need to be. "It's almost three-thirty."

"Okay. Finish and we'll go get the kids."

* * *

"So, what happened?"

"I didn't do anything!" Em cried.

When they'd arrived to the first grade classrooms. Judith had been waiting patiently. It turned out that Judith and Em were in the same class together. But Em...? Em was sat in the corner, cross legged and backwards on a chair that clearly wasn't made to be sat on cross-legged or backwards. The teacher, Mrs. Neudermyer, a friendly (if not rather stressed) woman had told Oliver that Em'd had a bit of a difficult day and that he'd been in time-out to calm down again for the last half of last period. Oliver apologised. He understood full-well that what that really meant was that Em'd been a rebellious little shit again and that he was driving his teachers and classmates insane.

"Em," Oliver said, sitting the little boy on the fence post outside the school. Em glared ruefully into his lap, twiddling his thumbs. "Talk to me." Em didn't. "I'll count," Oliver threatened. "One. Two... Thr–"

"My teacher!" Em whined, looking up to Oliver hopelessly. "She brought a box into school today. Picked me to open it." He vaguely remembered the pasta box, looking beaten down and miserable next to the desk.

"Cool," Oliver said, smiling.

"No, it wasn't," Em said, and Oliver couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen his little brother so genuinely troubled like this. He was hopping on each foot, which wasn't a very stable idea given the fact that he was supposed to be _sitting_ on the fence, and so Oliver helped him climb down. The hopping didn't stop. Carl laughed into the back of his hand and Judith stared at her classmate the same way one would stare at mating flies; disgust, but kind of oddly mesmerised, too. Oliver knelt down, focussing intently, because he knew that Em was bursting with wanting to understand what this _big feeling inside of him_ was.

"Tell me why?" he asked seriously.

Oliver had never spoken to Emilio in a baby voice. He'd told his mother that it was degrading and that it would make him egotistical and delusional and naive when he grew up, and Rosa just told her middle son to stop being so _pretenzioso_. But because of Oliver's stubbornness, Em would stare at people in offence if they did use childish voices, unless they were Rosa, of course. Their trip to Disney Land last year was a disaster. Goofy had said to Em in the babiest voice in the world (because that's kind of the only voice Goofy has), _"_ _What a good little boy, oh-hoy!"_ and so Em kicked him in the shin. Oliver had never heard Goofy swear before that day.

Anyway, Em answered: "I opened it."

"And?"

"It was empty."

Oliver frowned, still lost. He imagined the utter offence on Em's face in his class. He'd have looked up to Mrs. Neudermyer and grimaced, wondering in his four year old mind, _"_ _Why do you insult my intelligence, peasant?"_ (Because in Oliver's head Em's inner voice spoke like an angry twelfth century king). Anyway, instead of being able to say that though, it probably came out as, _"_ _Big fat meanie ass-pants!"_ and another number of curse words that he'd learnt from Oliver.

"She said to use my imagination," Em told.

"Okay..."

"But when I did she told me to go and sit down and think about what I said."

Oliver frowned sceptically. "What did you say?"

"I said the box was dumb and that I didn't want to pretend anymore."

"Why did the box make you so upset?"

Em sighed, like an old man who'd just remembered he'd forgotten to remind his partner to take their crazy pills. "I imagined that the box was pretending to be me," he explained carefully, like he was worried Oliver wouldn't understand. He was even talking with his hands. "And I imagined myself pretending to be the box. We couldn't do it right." He kicked the floor, sighing glumly. "I can't be a box."

"And, you _want_ to be a box?"

Em shook his head, squinted _Patrickly_ when he looked up. "I just didn't know I couldn't be a box."

That sentence struck Oliver.

Of course, he knew that Em was only saying this because of the bedtime story their mother had read to him the other night, and had read to him for as long as he could remember. But it still struck Oliver, hard. How limiting the world was. How limiting it was even at four years old, and how much worse it was going to get for Em when he realised this in too short a time. It scared Oliver. Truly and utterly.

But he smiled, took each of Em's small shoulder's in his palms, squeezed and said, "Life's a bitch, Em." Carl suddenly covered Judith's ears, and the little girl wriggled in outrage. "Shit happens," Oliver added quickly, and Em nodded like he'd just been given top secret information that he would take to the grave. So Oliver stood up, took his little brother's hand, and the four of them walked to the car.

* * *

Despite being classmates, Judith Grimes and Emilio De Luca did _not_ get along well. They bickered and fought the whole way to Carl's house. Em kept screaming, "Don't touch me! Cooties! COOTIES!" pointing at her, horrified, and Judith would stick her tongue out, touch it with her finger, then wipe Em's trouser leg, and Em would scream hysterically, "Oliver! She's got cooties! Girls HAVE cooties!" Oliver knew that Em was going to grow up to be a worse germ freak than he was.

But thankfully, they were in Carl's house now, and the screaming had diminished a little more. Pretty much wherever there could be, there was something pink set up, either by a balloon or a _Happy Birthday_ banister. Rick'd actually bought a cake and bought buffet food like rolls and mini pizzas and chips, which meant that Carl wasn't required, by law of grounding, to bake, and also meant that he and Oliver would have to cross _COOK A MEAL_ off their bucket list another time after the party and after they were done being sort-of-not-really-but-definitely-grounded. The party wasn't really a party, of course. Judith was only four. Hosted by Rick, Whinny and Carl, Judith's guests were Sophia, Duane, Oliver and Emilio. Another two guests were there that Oliver had never met before. One, a woman in her late thirties. She had dark skin and dreadlocks and wore stylish flowey clothes and liked to talk to Carl about art and her name was Michonne, and although nobody said anything, Oliver could tell that she and Rick were dating. Carl seemed to like her, and her son, Andre –the second guest Oliver hadn't met before– who was nine years old and had small short dreadlocks. He collected sticks and liked to pretend they were swords.

Judith was ecstatic.

Once everyone was there, Rick got to the presents.

Judith loved the toy horse from her father. She called the jet black inanimate animal _Buttons._ "It looks like a Buttons," she said when they'd asked why. Duane got her a My Little Pony poster. Andre got her a movie about a horse. Michonne got a book about horses –"Judith _really_ likes horses," Sophia whispered into Oliver's ear at that point. Whinny gave her grand daughter twenty dollars, and Rick kind of pried it from Judith's hands and gave his mother a strongly disapproving glare. Sophia got Judith a dress–with little horses on it. Carl got her, probably, the best present out of all; a large drawing of Judith _as_ a horse that was probably the same size as her that he'd made himself. It was awesome. It had her eyes and her hair colour coat and a curly brown mane and tail. Judith cried. Oliver wasn't sure he'd ever seen a four year old child happy-cry so hysterically.

Then there was Oliver's gift.

"Uh. Happy birthday, Judy."

It had only occurred to Oliver how foolish it was to get a four year old a bouquet of flowers for her birthday until it was happening. But it did happen, and Judith didn't seem _too_ disappointed, more like she just didn't really know what to do with them all. But, she did like it when Carl plucked one pink flower from the bouquet and put it in her hair, and Oliver didn't feel _completely_ useless as he watched her skip off with Andre with the plant fit snugly behind her ear.

"She says thanks," Carl said, and Oliver tried not to smile too ecstatically when their shoulders accidentally pressed for a moment longer than they needed to.

* * *

Duane's hands were up.  
Oliver's were, too.  
Duane made an _o_ with his mouth.  
Oliver did, too.

"Okay, now, stay like that for a sec..."

They did.

 _CLICK._

"Alright got it."

They dropped their arms and relaxed their expressions. "Are there anymore you gotta take, Soph?" Duane asked her.

"The final's in a few weeks so we gotta take loads."

Before, when Oliver was worried about rainbow yacking all over everything, well, he was thinking of that now. Because that was kind of what was happening here. Sophia had bought eight small bags of coloured powder. It was the stuff used for festivals and such. Neon blue. Emerald Green. Fire-Truck Red. Sunset Yellow. Rose Pink. Violet. Orange. Navy Blue. For a little while now they'd been in the front lawn. Sophia needed the four of them for her photography project. Like Carl, she had a deadline to get her final piece, or pieces–Oliver wasn't sure, together for grading.

Then there was suddenly green powder poured over Duane's hair. He didn't even react. Just tried not to breathe it in.

"Now, Duane," Sophia said, "shake your face, really hard."

He sighed, but did as asked, and Carl laughed at the noise Duane's mouth made when it swayed side to side at high speed. The emerald powder clouded and swooped and jutted away all around him, like it was in water, filling the air. Oliver retreated before he was asked to do the same, slumping down on the grass beside the Grimes and lying on his back. They were both covered in colour. Carl's fringe was blue and violet, his left shoulder yellow, most of the rest of him a mix of swirling blues and greens and pinks. Oliver didn't know what he looked like, just that the end of his nose was glowing orange, and that when he shook his head Violet clouds would spin down from it. After a moment, Carl led down, too. They made a sort of _V_ shape, the pointy part being their heads, though, with a few centimetres gap between touching.

"How many exams've you got left?" Carl asked.

"Nine," Oliver said, hearing Duane shaking his head again and the several camera _clicks_ that ensued. "You?"

"Eleven. Twelve if you count the Art final."

" _Jesus._ "

Carl smiled at him. Oliver knew this because he'd turned his head, too, and he saw that half of Carl's bottom lip was pink and green. He ran his tongue against his own lip, and he could taste the powder on it. He wondered what colour it was. It took him a second to realise that Carl was staring, and his smile had faded.

 _Unnecessary eye contact. It's great. It's interesting. It can make you feel in love, did you know that?_

Oliver looked away, aware that his cheeks were burning Violet, pretty sure that his whole body was. Burning with colour. Glowing with it. Humming like strumming hard against a guitar. "Uh. H-how is that, by the way?" he said. "The Art final. You, uh, never answered."

He heard Carl shrug, the internal answer: _I still have no idea._

"Not knowing's kinda terrifying, huh?" Oliver whispered.

Carl wasn't smiling anymore. Oliver knew this because he was looking at him again, his head tilted up to see, and what he saw stunned him, like it always seemed to do. So Oliver watched the blue recede behind two, big, glassy, black pupils, saw the tiny grains of yellow that had attached to his eye lashes on his left eye. _Whoa-_ worthy.

 _CLICK._

Oliver startled, snapping his head up to Sophia, who was stood practically over them both, camera up to her face, and when she lowered it she looked somewhat impressed, or confused, Oliver wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure how she's gotten so close without him noticing.

"Can you guys contort your faces?"

They stared at her. Carl rubbed his forehead, "What?"

"You know," she said, "like, pull your lips to the side and scrunch up your eyes or whatever?"

She demonstrated, and so with a little more passive aggressive coaxing, dragging Duane into it, and the three pulled their lips to one side and scrunched their eyes up, quickly becoming more creative; pushing up their noses and tugging their eyelids and opening their mouths so wide it hurt, pulling their skin and twisting their features. She got them to clap handfuls of coloured powder in front of their faces. She got them to get more handfuls, throw them up into the air and dance under them. She got them to throw handfuls of powder at each other, snapping her shots at just the right moment for impact. When that was over, she got them to line up along the wall and stand on their hands. Oliver got it quickly, maintaining his balance, and Duane a little after, but Carl had trouble, and so it was a little awkward when Oliver had to reach his leg across and hold it over his to steady him, but it got the up-side down shots Sophia wanted (along with a few awkward glances between the two boys) and then they were all allowed to slump to the floor again.

Nobody could move without creating a cloud of rainbow behind them. Pinks and reds and greens and blues and yellows and purples blanketed the grass of the front lawn. If Oliver didn't know any better he'd have thought it was all some big Gay Pride statement, and given the flow of the day and that thought slapped on top of it, he couldn't stop smiling.

"Awesome," Sophia said, skipping through photos on the screen.

"Why're you getting these kinda photos of us anyway?" Carl was the first to actually question.

"It's what my final piece'll be on – colourful perfect imperfection."

"Wow," Oliver laughed, and Sophia took a photo of it.

"So, in translation," Duane said, "you just wanna take weird photos and edit them into even weirder things and call it art."

"Exactly!"

They could hear the kids out back playing, Rick and Whinny's talking and chattering travelling over the fence next to the driveway. Oliver got up and climbed into the tire swing, upside-down, just like he'd wanted to do the first time. Powder rubbed off on the rubber and rope. It seemed, in just over one week, he was a lot more comfortable around his new friends, which he was more grateful for than he let on. When they were in school the four of them met up before class, they ate lunch together, studied and helped each other out in their shared classes, hung out after school–mostly at Sophia's house, and they had inside jokes, and on two occasion so far Oliver had made them all laugh until they'd cried.

Then there was a scream.  
"COOTIES!"  
Em's, of course.

Oliver laughed. Carl looked over, shaking his head in amusement, laughing, too. Oliver stopped when he noticed Sophia smiling at him, the flirtatious eyelash flutter she gave him, and he looked away nervously, feeling awkward and lanky and somehow exposed, because he hadn't forgotten what Carl had told him.

"Your brother's awesome," Duane said. Duane was led on the ground beside Oliver. When Oliver threw his head back (because he was still upside-down in the tyre) he saw Duane grinning at him. "He gave me a rock a little while ago," he went on, "told me not to let its goblins out."

"Wow," Oliver laughed, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. He felt the red powder –gritty and thick yet oddly satisfying– smearing into his eyebrow. "I think vivid imaginations run in our family."

"It's awesome."

"It's worrying," Oliver said, meant it, but also kind of didn't mind it in that moment either.

Duane rubbed his hands together so that the power went a strange brown-purple shade.

"Family night," Oliver thought aloud. "What's that about?"

"Oh," Duane said. "It's just some thing my dad made up."

"Like a religious thing?"

"Mmm, kinda. I guess. But it's more to _bring us all together again._ He's always sayin': _Everything gets a return._ After the stuff that went on a while ago, he's just trying really hard to fix things."

"What stuff?"

Oliver wondered if he was getting too personal, but Duane didn't seem to mind. . .

"My dad kinda went crazy a few years ago," he said. "He thought people were trying to hurt us, so, he would hardly let us go out and he set up traps and wrote weird messages on the walls. Mom and I got him help, eventually, but, yeah, it was rough."

"Shit..."

Out of everything that Oliver could or should have said, that was it. He bit his tongue, cursed himself.

"I'm... I didn't know."

Duane shrugged. "It's whatever. He's better now."

Oliver winced guiltily, looked ahead of him at the sky. He thought about his sentence, and because he was Oliver De Luca it took him a few agonising minutes to finally pluck up the courage to say it aloud. "I've never been afraid for someone like that," he said truthfully, "and, I'm sure it was a lot of things. But I know _'whatever'_ couldn't have been one of them."

Oliver saw Duane's eyebrows lift, the way he let out a long breath and closed his eyes. One of his eyelids was still green. "Yeah."

"Duane!" It was Andre, at the front door, a wide grin plastered across his dark features. He had Michonne's chin; thin and sharp, and her eyes; big and expressive, irises almost black, their whites shone. "Come see what me and Judy made!"

Duane went inside. Oliver went back to staring at the sky, squinting. It still astounded him how incredibly sunny Georgia was. He thought he was tanned before coming here, but now, especially with how much time he'd been spending outside lately anyway, Oliver had a worker's suntan on his wrists and collar. His mom had taken to reminding him to put on suntan lotion just to take out the garbage.

"Hey."

" _Ack!"_ he startled, almost throttling himself in the tyre. But he settled and righted himself when he saw that it was Sophia. "Oh, hey, Soph." He looked around. "Where'd Carl go?"

"Inside. Wanted to see what they'd made, too."

He nodded. "Right."

There was a pause. Sophia took a seat beside him on the grass, glancing to him as he swayed the tyre a little.

"That was cool," she said after a moment, "what you said to Duane." Oliver lifted his head to look at her properly, feeling awkward and flattered at the same time. "You're kinda really nice," she went on, then knelt in front of him, their eyes level now. He could tell that she was nervous, and suddenly his own set of butterflies invaded his gut, swarming. "Hey, um..."

"Sophi–"

She leant forward and kissed his forehead, quickly and suddenly, and Oliver's breath drew in on him, startling. When she pulled away he stared at her, and there was a pause, tense and fidgety, and Sophia was smiling and then not smiling and then smiling all over again. It took Oliver a moment to realise that he was smiling, too. A nervous and awkward and wondering kind of smiling.

"Nice, see?" she said coyly, and he wasn't sure if she was messing with him, joking around. But the moment he was about to ask, she'd leant forward again, only, it wasn't his forehead that she'd aimed for this time.

Sophia had soft lips that vaguely tasted of strawberry. Oliver had never kissed someone upside-down before. He thought of Spiderman, which probably _wasn't_ really who he should have been thinking about in that moment. But he was, and when she kept kissing him Oliver realised that he was supposed to be kissing her back, and so he did, granted, fairly startled by such a change in subject, and his eyes were wide open, his brow lifted. He could see her chin. It was moving, slightly and carefully. Oliver wondered if she could see his chin not moving, and then realised that he probably shouldn't be looking at her chin in the first place.

He made a noise when her hands came up to run over his chest, his leg coming up reflexively, knocking into the tyre and jolting them both off balance. Sophia jumped back, gasped, and Oliver awkwardly and clumsily twisted around in the tyre, pushing himself out of it and pulling his shirt down from where the rubber had tugged it up.

"Um. Uh. S-sorry," he muttered, stilling the tyre, kind of toppling against it until he got his balance.

"Sorry," Sophia said, too, breathing fast, swallowing. "I didn't think you'd... uh, sorry."

Oliver swallowed, and he felt guilty. Sophia looked hurt, disappointed, embarrassed, and Oliver figured that she'd probably imagined that going a lot differently. Furthermore, the realisation that she'd been wanting to do that in the first place was so shocking that he wasn't really sure how to feel about it. So he carefully moved to kneel in front of her. "No, it's whatever," he said, and tried to mean it, tried to be casual, like _punch-bro-over-shoulder_ casual, but held back from actually punching her shoulder, obviously. "I just... um, wasn't expecting you to... you know... uh."

Sophia was blushing, cringing. "Sorry."

Oliver laughed, rubbing his neck awkwardly, and he glanced out over the neighbourhood. It took him a moment to realise that Sophia was still looking at him. So he looked back, his eyebrows twitching into an arch, and he was at such a loss of how to play all of this off that all he could think to do was mildly tease her for it with a smirk. She rolled her eyes, and he snickered, wondering if they were just going to brush this off as something to laugh at. But Sophia reached up, resting her hand on his shoulder, smiling. Oliver smiled back nervously, and he looked at her freckles and her eyes and her lips.

 _Kiss her again,_ he told himself. _You should. You want to, don't you?_ He actually nodded to himself, swallowing, believing it. _Because you_ should _want to._

She tugged at the back of his shirt collar, pinched it gently with her thumb and index finger, and so he leant forward and kissed her. This time he closed his eyes. This time their kiss lasted for more than a second. At around three or four seconds Oliver pulled away, and his eyebrows were arched. He wasn't sure why, and he wasn't sure why he couldn't get them to relax, and he wasn't sure that they would ever stop and go back to normal ever again.

He heard something at the house, looked around at the front door, and his expression fell completely when he saw who was stood there. _. ._

"Carl."

"Hey," Sophia said when she looked, too, and she was smiling, blushing, pressing her palm against her cheek. Carl didn't say anything, instead his head dipped and he looked like he was going to turn on his heel and go back inside, but he looked up, opening and closing his mouth, trying to form his sentence. "Everything okay, Carl?"

"Uh, y-yeah," Carl said, "Uh. Yeah. We're about to serve the cake." He smiled then, tight and forced. "Uh... Gotta light the candles and sing happy birthday."

They got up and walked over to him. Sophia went in first, and Carl wouldn't look directly at Oliver when he glanced at him, instead he pressed his lips together and nodded the smallest bit, and Oliver suddenly felt like he wanted to apologise, like he'd made a mistake. But he pushed it to the back of his head and walked inside.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 20:56pm  
** **Subject: Taco Thanks**

Thanks for today. Taco Bell was definitely better than staring at my ceiling all day. Wanna hang out Friday after school? Since your grounding officially ends then.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:00pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I'm studying.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:02pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

On a Friday night? Come on, scrooge.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:03pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Quit being an ass hole.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:04pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I was kidding. . .

Why aren't you?

* * *

 **Time: 21:05pm**

Wanna taco'bout it?"

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 21:07pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I'm fine.

* * *

 **Time: 22:02pm**

So, did you ask her out?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 22:12pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Sorry, I had to put Em to bed. He wouldn't get out of the bathtub. And hey! You didn't even acknowledge my taco pun! Also, no, Sophia and I didn't really talk about it.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 22:13pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Right. Just kissed more.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 22:15pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

No. I mean we didn't talk about it.

* * *

 **Time: 22:31pm**

You still there?

* * *

 **Time: 22:33pm**

You didn't really say goodbye when we all went home.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 22:34pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I said I'd see you at school.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 22:37pm  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Yeah, from your bedroom.

* * *

 **Time: 23:40pm**

Come on, Carl. What's up?

* * *

He didn't get a reply.

* * *

 **Notes**

Em's cardboard box story was inspired by the beautiful **zefrank1** and his YouTube video "Make Believe" if you're ever down or lost or needing to hear something that makes sense in a way that you can't explain, watch his videos, "If you are in a shell..." especially.

And pretty much this whole chapter was super inspired by I'll Give You the Sun. Ah, I love that book soooooooooo much.

Hey, okay, so I entered this story into a contest on **ink it t** (no spaces) dot com, if you're motivated enough, wanna head over there and vote for Stale M &M's AU (you can find it if you type it into the searchy thing) but only if you have an account :) thanks if you do!

I'll probably update this story once a week or so :)

As always,  
Happy reading : _)_


	11. Part 2: Shirtless

**purifiedwatergonebad** XD that's funny!

 **DarthGranola** Hahaha omg! xD

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Ah, thank you! xx

 **RIGGSSIVAN** Thankyouthankyou! :D

 **Rolo-chan** Thank you! Nice to see you over here x) Glad you like Nell in this! She's totally different, it's so refreshing! Haha, hope you like this chapter then lol and to answer your questions, no, I don't think the main story will come into this anymore, and if it does it won't be viewed as anything more than a wacky dream. Yeah, I'll probably bring in the book thing haha BUT OLIVER DOESN'T HAVE A BOOK FETISH! xD And unfortunately I haven't really added his inner self into this story. It's kind of hard to in third person. So, inner self is just for main story :/ and about Enid... sorry :) I really love her in this. I really love her in the other one, too x)

 **Biter two** haha omg that's so nice, thank you! THANK YOU SO MUCH! And good luck! And yes! Me and **NewWalker** went up onto the hills and saw the sky turn sunset to magic the other day. It was stunning. Pinks and purples and blues and oranges. We sat up-side down (the hill was kinda steep, so) and stared at it until the blood rushed to our brains and the dew on the grass soaked our butts and shoulders xD Colourcolourcolour. :D

 **NoisySunday** *pouting ridiculously* jesus fuck thank you so bloody much I'm dying! Yeah, Oliver, like most human beings, makes a lot of stupid mistakes. But it's really cool that you can get all of that from reading x and yes, as I've expressed, I adore Enid, and in this she plays a pretty big moral role for Oliver and I'm so pumped to let you read it! Okay, I'll admit, I was kind of tearing up by the end of your review. Gosh, I hope to hear from you soon. And thank you for taking the time to read! xxx

* * *

 **"** **Eyes Shut" by Years & Years**

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 17** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 16:54pm  
** **Subject: Play Date?**

So it's been a few days and I'm pretty sure Mom's never going to let the whole "play date" plan go. We gotta make it a real thing soon or she'll send me back to soccer camp.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 21** **st** **2015  
** **Time: 09:38am  
** **Subject: Taco Thursday**

Hey, man, wanna come with me to Taco Bell again? It's Thursday. I personally believe in making Taco Thursday a thing. And we've still gotta plan a play date. Mom's insistence hasn't wavered. It's increased. Warp speed.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 24** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 11:01am  
** **Subject: Starting Conversation**

Thought of what you'll do for your art project yet?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:18am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Okay. I'm starting to take this whole _I'll only talk to you in person_ thing to heart...

* * *

 **From:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:47am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Do you want a ride to school?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:50am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Actually I was gonna ride my board in. It's been a while.

* * *

 **From:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:52am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Okay. See you there x

Ps. Try not to run anyone else over, okay?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:58am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I feel like I'm never going to live that down.

* * *

 **From:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 29** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 08:00am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

You aren't, pookie.

Later xxx

* * *

"Pookie?"

 _What am I doing?_

This was the question Oliver asked himself frequently.

Oliver wasn't sure how to explain himself. No, actually he did. He was being an ass hole. But he wasn't sure how it'd all happened. Oliver hadn't actually asked Sophia out, and he didn't know he he would. But she sure acted like he would, or _had_. It was two weeks since their first kiss. Oliver knew he thought she was pretty, and he liked how they could make each other laugh, and that they got along well, and so he tried to like it more. A week ago, she'd kissed him in the hallway, catching him off guard when he'd just closed his locker and turned to head on his way to class. It was easy back then to act like nothing happened. But within a few days, they were kissing more, and it got harder.

Oliver had never initiated anything between them. He understood this was a shitty excuse. A _really_ shitty excuse. Because he also never said he didn't want to, either, because he _did_ want to, or, he told himself he did. They'd be watching TV, and then on a few occasions Carol would pop out of the house for a few minutes to get the groceries, or Carl or Duane would leave to go home or play video-games in the basement, and Sophia would tap Oliver's shoulder, and Oliver would glance at her from the TV about to complain about some annoying character, and in the same moment she would be kissing him, climbing onto his lap, and Oliver would bring his hands up and pull her closer because he thought he was supposed to. Nothing they did ever involved any loss of clothing. But he knew that that was where it was heading.

Like most things lately, Oliver didn't know how he felt about it.

The scenario reminded him of one of his favourite books, _The Perks of being_ _a Wallflower._ He felt like Charlie, and Sophia was like Elizabeth. Though, admittedly, Sophia wasn't actually half as annoying. But still, Oliver was tired of kissing her, he was tired of trying to feel something when he simply wasn't able to, but he was too polite to say so. Again, he was aware of how shitty an excuse that was, and to go _further_ into the realm of shitty excuses, he was too afraid to tell her. Afraid might be the wring word. _Stupid_ might be better. Or _massive douche_. Furthermore, he knew that the longer it went on like this the worse it was getting.

He wondered if he could somehow come up with some elaborate plan to break his non-emotional-reciprocation over a game of truth of dare like Charlie did in the book. But, that had resulted in the mortification of Elizabeth and shunning of Charlie's entire friendship group, and that was _not_ what Oliver intended.

Also, Oliver tried to spend a lot of time not thinking about who Sam could be. Sam, being, who Charlie was _really_ in love with in the book. But Oliver knew who Sam was in his life. He knew and there was nothing he could do to help it. Because this one person – Oliver's _Sam,_ was who lingered in Oliver's mind at every waking and sleeping moment.

Carl Grimes.

Carl's voice was who's he heard in his dreams, the good ones. Carl's lips were who's Oliver imagined when his were buried against Sophia's, and not even intentionally. Oliver tried hard not to think about it. About him. And it was only a few days ago that he really became aware of it. He was at Sophia's house, in her kitchen, and they were kissing again. But this kiss was different from the others. Oliver's heart punched him in the chest with every beat. His breath hitched. His body felt static. And when Oliver pulled away, he'd almost whispered his name. Carl's. And he startled when he opened his eyes and saw hazel instead of blue. It go too scary. Too intense. So Oliver had to stop. He had to walk it off, the painful ache, pacing the room and apologising and trying not to cry. Sophia didn't ask why. She didn't call after him when he mumbled something about babysitting Mika and Lizzie and walked out of her house without another word.

That was the last time he'd spoken to Sophia in person.

This morning, Oliver's stomach was aching particularly bad. Aside from the bruises he'd given himself last night, again, Oliver was stressing over several things he had to do today. He'd set tasks for himself.

1\. A Literature exam. First through half of second period.  
2\. The Sociology test that counted for an oddly specific amount of thirty- _two_ percent of his final grade, fourth period.  
3\. He needed to talk to Sophia –but he was pretty sure he'd put that off, again.  
4\. He was tutoring Carl at lunch. Oliver was going to spend half of it teaching him Italian, and the last half would be spent preparing for their Sociology test.  
5\. There was only two weeks left of school.  
6\. He was going to his father's for the weekend. He was getting picked up a few hours after school.

The last one was the task that was making Oliver's gut barrel into his throat whenever he thought about it. For the first time in months he was going to spend two nights and two and a bit days with his _father._ Oliver'd given Dale a week's notice in advance, and the old man was cool with it. It was going to be a long seven and a half hour drive, but it aside from seeing his father, the actual place was worth it. When Oliver's American grandparents passed away in 2004 (three months apart), they'd left their Townsville home –the cabin– to their only son. Every summer Oliver, his brother and their parents would go there for three weeks over vacation. Oliver loved it. He loved the smell of petrichor on the mornings after it had rained. He loved digging his toes into the pebbled shore and letting the cool lake water lap to his heels. He loved how far away it made him feel to be there. But over time visits there became rarer and rarer, and when Em was born they didn't go at all. But now, since the divorce, his father was living there. It was better for him because it was away from everything. He could disappear, hide, then come out and work wherever it was his work suddenly needed him to be for a few months.

"Do good on your exam," his mother said when Oliver walked into the kitchen, finding her in her usual place at the table, eating her avocado toast, pushing the plate towards him and raising her dark eyebrows. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail, casual loose strands tucked behind her ears in that Guidance _Counsellor/used to be a Geography Teacher_ way. "You should eat..."

"I'm alright," he said, and checked his phone for a reply from Carl –like he had done about every thirty seconds every day for the past two weeks. There was none. Like always. In the last two weeks the two hardly emailed anymore. They talked when they saw each other in person, acted like nothing was wrong, like there wasn't some great crack that had split them right through the middle, but Oliver missed it. He missed staying up until past midnight talking about lists and comics and pudding. He missed the awful emojis and the anticipation of a reply and the satisfaction of getting one. He missed–

"I bought Granola bars," Rosa coaxed. "Chocolate."

Oliver looked at the fridge, swallowed hungrily, but turned away and shook his head. _Control,_ he thought. _If it isn't the grades or the emails or his father, then food was going to be what he had it over._ "I'll buy something at school," he lied. He couldn't eat until the exam and test was over anyway. If he ate before them he was afraid that he'd yack. Because that had happened once. On days like this there weren't a lot of things his stomach could... _keep down._ It made him feel vulnerable. _Control,_ he told himself again. _Keep yourself under control._

Something growled from under the table, and Oliver crouched, saw his little brother tearing apart a banana and eating the parts of it that weren't smeared on the table leg. Oliver waved at him, and was going to leave, but Rosa caught his glance, and Oliver saw her eyebrow cock. "What?"

"So, were you ever planning on telling me about Sophia?"

"Huh?"

"It's having a girlfriend, not an STI, you don't need to be secretive."

"Mom, if I had an STI you'd be the first person I'd cry about it to," he joked. Rosa smirked, the same smirk Oliver had inherited, only, without the under-bite. "And she's not my girlfriend."

"She said you were like a cat," Rosa teased. "Smelling people's hair, snuggling."

"You were listening to our phone call," Oliver hissed, and Rosa shrugged like she didn't realise that that was totally crossing a line. "For one, she spilled Oregano in her hair, it smelt like _Nonno._ " Rosa's expression softened at that. "And two," Oliver went on, "it wasn't really snuggling, she just, sort of leans on me a lot."

"She's sweet. And she's beautiful."

"Mom, can we not talk about this?"

"No, we never talk about this kind of thing," she complained. "I can get kids I hardly know to talk to me about their personal lives, but I can't even get my own son to tell me if he has a girlfriend." _That isn't even the half of it, Mom._ "Why? Why is that?"

"Maybe," _because you expect so_ fucking _much from me! Maybe because if I were to tell you what's going on in my fucked up mind you'd disown me!_ Oliver swallowed the insecurities back, re-phrasing: "I'm not a middle school kid. Mom, I can handle my own problems."

Rosa watched him, suddenly serious. "Problems?"

 _You walked right into that one, asshole,_ he told himself. "Soph's cool. Nice," he tried. "But... Look, I've got this."

Rosa's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the corners of her mouth curved in amusement. She liked making her sons nervous. It meant that she was challenging them, stretching their self-esteem that little bit. Patrick eventually learnt to do it back. Em still had it all to come. Oliver needed it, even if he didn't outwardly appreciate it.

"I always knew you were going to be a heart breaker."

Oliver frowned then, and wasn't exactly sure what his mother meant by that, but it still stung. "I'm not trying to hurt anyone."

"I know," she said softly. "That's why. You're so aware of other people that you forget about yourself. It puts you in situations you don't wanna be in." _Then what do I do?_ "Like when you went with your brother to burn that mattress." Oliver didn't even know she knew about that. "Or when you went to that concert with Nell and your friends."

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"You got Patrick to pick you up early."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "I have to go, Mom."

"Oliver?"

He turned to her, leaning over to get his skateboard.

"Just, be kind to her. Like her like that or not. Be a gentleman."

* * *

" _Nel frattempo..._ "

"Uh... _However_?"

"No," Oliver shook his head, uncovered the word he'd been holding his palm over. "Almost got it."

"Oh, _meanwhile._ _Nel frattempo._ "

"Isn't this exam being graded on pronunciation, too?"

Carl waved his hand. "I'll worry about that once I remember the freaking sentence starters."

Oliver's Literature exam went alright, in the end. He remembered what Penelope had told him about picking a tense and sticking to it, and how not to go overboard on the commas like he sometimes had a habit of doing. So, overall, he didn't feel like he needed to yack as much anymore.

"Say _however,_ " he instructed Carl.

Carl grinned, " _However._ "

Oliver's eyes rolled. "In Italian, dork."

Carl rolled his eyes, too, thought, then said, "Isn't it... _per_ _ò,_ or something?"

" _Si!_ " Oliver praised. " _Però. Però, dobbiamo raggiungere gli altri diciassette frasi di._ " Oliver took Italian, too, but he was in the advanced class. His mother was to thank, completely.

"Nope," Carl said, suddenly, his eyebrows flying up like he'd just witnessed someone get mugged. " _Nope!_ " Again, this time pointing a finger, his other hand slapping his pencil down on the table top. "I'm done. I don't have any idea what you just said."

Oliver laughed. "I said, _However, we've gotta get to the other seventeen sentences._ "

Carl groaned, sneaking a bite of his wrap and then hiding it under the table again. "I understood the number _seventeen._ And the _however_."

"That's good," Oliver encouraged.

"Wanna hang out this weekend?" Carl asked then, off topic, chewing. "I'm working stupid-early until the afternoon, but we could hang out after?"

Oliver frowned. "You haven't been replying to my emails."

Carl looked at his paper, forced his smile and looked up again, shrugged. "I've had stuff going on." Oliver kept looking at him, so Carl kept talking. "Stuff with my mom and her boyfriend and my dad. It's no biggie, I guess. It just takes up a lot of energy." Carl was doodling now, still hiding the food under the table, so Oliver took the hint to move subject.

"Where do you work?" he asked.

"Subway," Carl answered, nodding. The way you nod during a statement just to confirm it for the sake of confirming it.

"But you hate sandwiches."

Carl took another bite of his wrap. "I'm aware of the irony."

"Hey I work in a cherry orchard, and I hate the taste of cherries," Oliver said, dipping his head because he suddenly couldn't help how shy he felt. It's just, Carl did this thing sometimes when he was deciding if he wanted to laugh or not, biting his bottom lip and grinning to broadly that the corners of his eyes would crinkle. _Stop being so... anatomically correct!_ Oliver wanted to order, but remembered to collect his sanity. "I, uh. I kind of love irony."

Carl grinned even more, and Oliver thought he'd double over and yack rainbow butterflies on the library carpet. He imagined them, splattering at his hands, shaking off his fluorescent bile from their wings and fluttering up and around the room, landing on books and lining up along the wooden beams and gathering in the windows. He could hear the wild and quiet fluttering, filling his imagination.

"So?"

Oliver snapped out of it, startling. "What?"

"Are you up to it?"

"Up to what?" Oliver was trying to stop thinking about yacky butterflies and Carl's grin.

Carl laughed exasperatedly. "Hanging out."

"Oh, yeah," Oliver said, but then winced. "Wait. No. I'm at my dad's house."

Carl's head tilted. "We can't still do something?"

Oliver shook his head regrettably, "It's in North Carolina. Some old lake cabin that my grandparents used to live in."

Carl nodded, "Cool."

Oliver felt awkward, so to move back to the Italian he tapped the text with his pencil, covering the English translation with his hand. "Come on," he said softly, "what's this one?"

So they continued.

They were in the library, sat at the same desk that their emails had started at, sneaking their lunch under the table so that the librarian wouldn't see them eating. Oliver went to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and he rather ruthlessly leapt into an empty classroom when he saw Sophia walking down the corridor, hid until she'd gone like a coward. He'd planned what he would tell her, prepared, but it didn't make actually saying it aloud any easier. But he would. He kind of had to. Now though, he was focussing on Carl. They went over all seventeen of the phrases he needed to learn. Carl was better than he gave himself credit for. He knew most nouns, and only got a few pronouns confused, and he was good at most prepositions and adjectives. But Oliver could tell how he didn't get his hopes up, even though he probably could have a little. It was kind of sweet – seeing Carl this way. Unsure and curious and bored but trying really really hard all at once. It was different from his usual nonchalant confidence.

Finally, satisfied for the day as much as he could be after getting the Italian translations of _In general, I enjoy your efforts and company, but none the less, despite this, I really don't want to do any more Italian Language today, or for the rest of the week, or my life._ And so they got a start on the Sociology revision. Which kind of just ended up with both boys getting into a rather heated debate that ranged from examples of social mobility to what gender should be defined by, and both boys argued different topics and examples that pretty much were just elaborate and entertaining ways to agree with each other. Oliver was glad to hear how progressive Carl's views were. The librarian, a tall and thin lady with black bob-cut hair had shushed them twice now for getting too loud.

"What even _is_ Social Stratification?" Carl whispered, taking another bite of his wrap without getting caught.

Oliver was about to answer to the best of his mental capacity, but suddenly, he was pushed forward, and his face hit the table top, cheek smushed over open textbook with a painful grunt.

Carl shot up reflexively, "Hey, get off him!"

"I called the pussy department." Oliver recognised the voice. Benny Sansa. His friends sneering as they walked past. "They want their _bitches_ back." Oliver tried to push his head up, and Benny almost let him, but slammed him back down again and laughed. "God, it's pathetic. _Really._ "

"Ben, stop," Carl grimaced, and Oliver saw him put a hand on Benny's arm, but stopped when one of the other guys did something that Oliver couldn't see. But he heard the grunt, guessing that Carl had earnt anything ranging from a quick push on the shoulder to a sharp swat across the back of the head. "Look, just leave us alone."

"I'm just messing around, dude," Benny said, and Oliver was gripping his wrist with the only free hand he had, not really sure what else he could do other than grip it and hope it would coax Benny to let go.

"Come on," he grunted into the paper, his forehead and cheek throbbing. "Sociology homework isn't supposed to be ingested." Oliver caught Carl's widened, warning eyes, but he didn't stop. "Or is that too much for your limited IQ to understand?"

Benny let go of him, grimaced, "Fucking weirdo," he said, and grabbed the wrap Carl'd dropped on the floor, suddenly, and before Oliver could do anything it was thrust against his chest, mayonnaise and ham smearing over his T-shirt. "Have that on me, fag. _Carly_ here can go ahead and lick it off. Looks like it's headed that way."  
"Screw off," Carl shot back.

But Benny grabbed his shirt, closing his fist into the collar. "Pretty sure I asked you to do something, Carly." Carl's lips closed, and for the first time since Oliver had known him, even all the way back in soccer camp. . . Carl looked afraid. "Go ahead," Benny went on. "Lick it off."

"What? N-no."

But Jester, one of the guys with Benny, grabbed Carl by the hair. Oliver scrunched his eyes and struggled against the hand crushing his face, and he was pushed onto his side against the table, and he felt Carl's struggle, too; his hands as they grabbed the table edge, at one point grabbing Oliver's shoulder and trying to stop his face from being shoved against the mayonnaise on his shirt.

"What is going on over here!?"

The pressure on Oliver's shoulder and face released immediately, regained his balance, heard the snide, "Later, dudes," that Benny said to them –as if to a friend– laughing as he strolled out of the library with Jester, another jock Oliver didn't know the name of, and his arm slung over Maddie Lester's shoulder. Maddie Lester was the most popular girl in school, and by default, Benny was the most popular guy seeing as they'd been dating since the start of senior year, apparently. Oliver hated how cliché it all was, and so it made it suck even more because of how stupidly true it was, too.

Oliver still had the half-eaten wrap and condiments on his shirt, peeling them off, and there wasn't much he could do as the librarian stormed over, shaking a finger. Rage seemed to make her bob go static. "You were eating!" is what she hissed. "Get out. Now!"

"It was m–"

Oliver got up and collected his bag before Carl could finish, grimacing and frustrated and embarrassed. "Later, man," he said, and was glad that he didn't try to follow, also sort of a little worried that he would have to dodge the woman's swatting finger in order to get past her. But she let him leave, snapping her angry eyes to Carl, who looked overwhelmed, before turning on her heel and going back to her desk.

"Oliver."

He hardly heard it, but just as he left he looked back at him, saw the younger teenager staring at him, his mouth opening and closing like he was going to keep talking, but Oliver looked away and left before he could.

* * *

The mayonnaise didn't come off very well, the water mixed with the little broken off bits of toilet paper sort of looked like something had thrown up over him, and he had to walk out of the boy's bathroom with a big wet mark over his chest. So he ignored the second glances other kids gave him as they passed him through the hallway to Sociology, heading to class. The bell rang just as he saw Carl outside the classroom. But Oliver's stomach dropped when he saw Sophia in front of him, facing away. But Carl saw him coming, looked past her and waved a little apologetically –for the mayo incident, Oliver was pretty sure.

Sophia turned, grinned, waved. Oliver was holding his backpack in his hand due to taking a textbook out of it, and so he waved back with his free hand. Only, in the same moment, footsteps rushed up behind him, and suddenly. . .

Oliver was shirtless.

It took him a moment to realise what had happened. It was Benny again, of course. Oliver kind of just watched, mouth agape, as Benny and one of his friends sprinted off with his soggy T-shirt. His backpack and notebook crumpled to the floor, flung from his hands, and Oliver had to catch his footing. When he did his arms came up, folding over his bare skin instantly. To be fair, not a lot of people laughed. Most of them sort of just stared, like, _Oh... Oh that's just sad._ Had Oliver not've been just about 100% mortified, he would've found it impressive how skilfully and elegantly a rather unskilled and definitely _not_ elegant guy like Benny could have pulled off someone's shirt so easily. But he couldn't think about that. No. Right now, Oliver well and truly wanted to die. Oliver was sure he'd had nightmares about this. Stood naked in the hallways, exposed, and everyone could see him, and not only his skin either, but everything else, every anxiety and demon and fear that Oliver had spent so much of his life hiding and suppressing. Oliver would scrunch his eyes and wake up. And it was the same now, in reality, only, when people saw his surface their minds filled in the rest, and Oliver had no control over it.

He looked at Carl, because suddenly Carl was the person Oliver most didn't want to see this out of everyone here. Carl was equally as stunned, and there wasn't much he could do other than watch like everyone else, and so he did. He watched as Oliver reached down and grabbed his backpack, heavy and sinking like a brick in deep water, walking to them with his textbook covering a small rectangle over his bear chest, his hands and arms doing all they could to cover a little more around himself. But the bruises were there. They littered Oliver's torso and shoulders and arms worse on the right side, and on display for everyone to see.

Sophia's hand was covering her mouth, and Carl's breath froze in his throat, hitching there when he remembered to breathe again, and they stared and stared and stared.

"Do you know where I can get another shirt?"

It took everything in Oliver to ask it so nonchalantly. Carl shook his head, and Oliver crossed his arms more tightly when he didn't stop staring, feeling the worst kind of pathetic, pretty sure they just wanted him to leave, pretty sure that if he dug a hole and buried himself six feet under nobody would think anything against it.

"There's a lost and found" Sophia said, "but I wouldn't risk touching any of it." Oliver winced, nodded as much to communicate his understanding as to nod away the wet in his eyes. "I have a spare hoodie in my locker?" she added. "It's on the way to my next class."

Oliver didn't want to talk anymore, about anything, and so he just nodded and walked away with her.

* * *

This wasn't a good time for any talking, and Sophia seemed aware of this, and so, she handed Oliver the hoodie without trying to make conversation. She watched him pull it on. Like the rest of Sophia's wardrobe, the hoodie was colourful. It was blue with a cartoon picture of a small rainbow on the bottom left corner near the pocket. On one side of the rainbow was a little cloud with a pink heart in it. It would've suited _her._ But it most definitely did not suit _him._ But he thanked her anyway, pretending that it wasn't a little too small. For 1. he was sure criticizing _any_ girl's clothing was a particularly hazardous idea, and 2. he didn't want to offend her for trying to help him in the first place, and 3. he definitely had _no_ place to complain.

 _This,_ he thought, _might be an example of what Mom was talking about._

But he had to get to class, and so he was going to turn and head back to Sociology, but Sophia took his hand. His wrist actually, and Oliver was aware that it wasn't the usual kind of flirtatious touch from her. It was serious and careful... worried. "Oliver?"

 _Shit, shit, shit._ "Yeah."

"Where did your bruises come from?"

He shrugged.

"Did someone do that to you?"

"No, Soph."

"Your mom or dad?"

"No!"

He'd hissed it so angrily that she'd startled, and when she brought herself back down from tip-toes, she was whispering. . . "You do it to yourself?"

"I fell off my board," he lied. "It's just embarrassing. That's all."

She didn't believe him, even Oliver could tell. Her eyes narrowed, tilting her head. "Can we talk, after school?"

"I'm going to my dad's."

"You know, you're not really very good at this." _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ "I don't mean, like, just talking to me. But like, talking. At all."

He scowled at the locker.

"Can I ask you something?"

More not talking. More scowling. But he felt more like he was going to cry now.

"Are you asexual?" She'd said it casually, tilting her head. "Hm?"

He looked at her then. "Erm. No."

"Guess I knew that," Sophia sighed, shrugged, rubbed her lip, and then her eyes narrowed again, but both to Oliver's relief and worry, she didn't look angry. "Are you, like, bi, or–"

"No," he blurted, and his hands were clamped over his shoulders.

"It's oka–"

"Ishouldgotoclass."

Sophia's grabbed his arm before he could turn. "I'm not an idiot. Oliver... I've noticed. And, I know I'm a shitty person for still trying, and I'm sorry for that, but... I notice. I see the way you look at hi–"

"Stop." Oliver's voice broke. He couldn't understand how such a topic could have gone from changing a shirt, abuse, to talking about his sexual orientation. It was making his temples pound. It was making the nothing in his stomach rise to his throat. He knew he should've apologise. He knew that this was his fault and not hers. But he was so afraid that the moment he would talk, everything – _absolutely everything–_ would come spilling out of him. "I h... I have to go."

She frowned. "I'm being really _freaking_ good about this, Oliver."

He wanted to apologise. Hell, he was close to collapsing to his knees and begging for her atonement. But he was frozen.

"The least you could do is give us both some closure about this."

He was shaking his head. "Soph, I have to g–"

"Oliver, I'm trying to help."

"Well _don't_!" he hissed, yanking his arm out of hers, and he turned, marched.

"You know?!" she yelled after him, slamming her locker closed. "You're so busy hiding that you don't see how fucked it's making you!"

He saw. He definitely saw. He knew it was damaging him. But he was too far gone now. Coming back from it wasn't an option anymore.

"Young lady!" a teacher reprimanded. "Watch your language."

"Sorry, Mr. Johns."

"Go to class. Before I report back to your mother."

* * *

Oliver apologised to his teacher, and after what had just happened it took him until he'd taken his seat to realise that most of class was laughing into their papers because of his new clothing. His stomach was both a rock and jello. Mrs. Kent quietened everyone and handed out the Sociology test, and Oliver refused to look up. He knew his cheeks were flushed. He knew he was sweating. He knew that he looked like he'd just been slapped. . . and he knew that Carl was watching him.

" _Psst._ "

Oliver ignored him.

Thirty questions. Oliver had to answer thirty questions with an effective balance between opinion, knowledge and fact, which were often three different things entirely. For instance, he understood that the statistics stated that a large percentage of non-European American citizens would be less likely to get a college degree compared to European Americans, but his opinion believed and understood that this wasn't an honest reflection on the races itself, and fact stated that a persons intelligence and worth was impossible to determine from race or ethnicity, and so writing this into something that might be considered a test answer often came as a challenge. He knew enough to know that Mrs. Kent had made the majority of the test into some elaborate mind game in which its aim was to fuck up her student's thought process more than her subject already did. Oliver loved that about Sociology. He loved the giddy moments when the beginning of understanding would writhe and build within him, pulled to the surface by a brilliantly balanced question, only for it to get trounced and proven wrong or better by another.

But right now, Oliver couldn't concentrate. His palms were sweating, and his heel wouldn't stop rocking. He felt something writhing and building within him, but it wasn't a brilliantly balanced question. It was panic. It slithered up his spine and paralysed every nerve in his body. His breath became fast, and his face tensed, for a fleeting moment he wondered if he was dying. But this wasn't the first time he'd felt like this. This wasn't the first panic attack that he'd had. But it didn't make it any easier. It didn't stop him from clutching either side of his head, then his desktop. It didn't stop him from trembling. It didn't stop him from startling out of his skin when a ball of paper collided with the back of his head. When it landed in Sophia's hood laughter rippled across the classroom.

Mrs. Kent looked around irritably, saw Oliver scrambling to fish the ball from his borrowed hoodie, but she stormed over, snatching it from his fingers. "Who threw this?!" Nobody answered, and so of course her targets went back to Oliver. "Cheating will get you disqualified from an exam, De Luca."

"I'm." _Dying!_ "I-I wasn't."

She unfolded the paper, wrongly mistaking Oliver's trembling for nerves from getting busted. She looked at the text over her glasses, squinting, and then she sighed, dropped her hand. "Alright, who wrote this?"

Oliver tilted his head, trying to settle his breathing, shaking, and he saw written on the paper crumpled in her palm that it read:

 _'faaaaaaaag'_

Oliver tried to snatch it back, " _It'sfine,_ " he muttered, but Mrs. Kent seemed oblivious to the embarrassment she was causing, holding the paper up.

"Come on, guys," she declared. "Calling someone out on sexuality is so lame." People were sneering and giggling and staring. "Gay, lesbian, bisexual, any sexuality, it isn't funny to joke about or shame people on it. Come on, I mean we're. . ."

Oliver didn't hear anymore than that. He was rushing across the classroom, shoving the door open, rushing down the hallway, embarrassed and terrified and aching all at the same time. He covered his mouth, clutching his stomach with his other hand. The boy's bathroom was a few hallways away, and Oliver ran, stumbled, gasping and retching and panicking. He found a cubicle and doubled over on the floor. But he hadn't eaten anything all day so he didn't throw up, and the dry heaving sucked but at least it was over quickly. The same couldn't have been said about the panic attack. He stumbled across the bathroom and leant over the sink, held his mouth and panted through his fingers, staring at his reflection until what was looking back at him scared him so much that he had to stare at the sink, focussing on breathing. _In through the nose. Out through the mouth._ Too fast. Too fast. Too fast. _Shh. Shh. Shhh. Please calm down!_

He ran the tap and held his hands under the water, plugging it with the ball of his palm. When the tap would turn itself off he would punch it to run it again, filling the sink until the end of his forearms were under. It was cold. Clearing. Like the lake. Oliver didn't hear the bathroom door open. But he saw the figure move behind him through the mirror, and he span around, startling.

"Hey."

"Mother _fuck_!"Oliver stared at him. At Carl. His breath faltered, and he almost collapsed, his panic attack worsening. His chest felt like it had a chainsaw ripping right through him, and he was hyperventilating, afraid he was having a heart attack.

"I'm sorry," Carl said.

"W-why?" Oliver managed, _panickingpanickingpanicking._

"For making you fall in love with me," Oliver heard at first, only, Carl'd actually said, "For scaring you, just then." O

liver closed his eyes and clutched the sink behind him, breathing, _breathebreathebreathe._

"And, I'm sorry for what happened back there – I-it wasn't me." Carl stopped, because both boys knew he didn't need to explain that. "I'm just sorry I didn't tell Jester where to put it." So it was one of Ben's disciples. Oliver should've guessed. "He's a moron." Oliver was still trying to slow his breath and stop the tremble in his chin and arms. "What's wrong with you?"

"N-nothing."

"No, no I mean, why are you shaking? And, why are you all bruised up?" Carl seemed overwhelmed, suddenly. "Oliver?"

"Nothing," Oliver lied again. The light made him dizzy. The light made him want to crawl in a hole and hide there. But he had to open his eyes properly when he heard Carl moving, and he saw him step closer, carefully, wearily. He took Oliver's shoulder, pulled him into a hug, squeeze around his shoulders. Oliver tightened his grip, too, buried his face into his neck, clenched his eyes, breathing in... breathing _him_ in.

"I..." Oliver had to collect enough air to start over. "I need, something flat. I need – I need something flat."

"Wh – What like a wall?"

Oliver nodded, and he splayed his palms out, and Carl guided them to the wall beside the mirrors, held his wrists until Oliver flattened his hands to the dry wall, and he nodded, and so Carl let go. But when Oliver's breath wouldn't slow Carl's hand came up and rested on his shoulder, sliding to press the crook of Oliver's neck, and his other hand went to Oliver's wrist again, pressing gently and carefully.

"Shh. It'll pass. . . Promise."

Oliver nodded, breathing and breathing. For a long while neither said anything else, and it took time, like, a really, really long time, but finally Oliver could feel his heartbeat calming, and his expression wasn't contorting anymore, and he didn't have to hold down his sobs like he was wrestling them, and the air stopped screaming at him, and so, awkwardness and embarrassment made him pull himself away, stepping back, wiping his face, looking at his feet.

"How..." Oliver took a breath and held it for a second, wiping his eyes again. "Uh, how'd you know to do that?"

"My mom. She gets panic attacks, sometimes."

Carl didn't say anything else, he just took a seat on the floor by the end of the cubicles, patted beside him for Oliver to join. Oliver thought that sitting on the bathroom floor was probably the most disgusting thing he never wanted to do, ever, but he did anyway, like something was pulling him. Something warm and comforting and good. So the two boys sat in silence for a few minutes; backs to the graffitied cubicle wall, their shoulders touching, a dull light coming from a flood light overhead, the faint smell of urine and disinfectant offending their noses.

"It's been a while," Carl said.

 _What? Since you've sat in on stale piss?_ Oliver thought sarcastically, _Yeah. Me, too, man._

Carl smirked like he could read Oliver's mind. "Since we've hung out," he went on, as if he'd as much said, _You dork._ "Just the two of us, you know?"

Oliver looked up at the tile-ceiling, felt the cold against the back of his head, heard the soft slide when he moved a little. "The bathroom was definitely what I had in mind."

"Ditto." Carl chuckled, then turned to look directly at Oliver. Oliver could see him out the corner of his eye, but didn't look as well. "So," Carl said after a moment, looking away, "what _did_ you have in mind?"

Oliver turned to him then. _Blue,_ was the word he was thinking. _Blueblueblueblueblue._

Carl frowned ahead of him, and Oliver realised he hadn't answered.

"Sorry."

He said it too much. He always had.

Carl shook his head, but didn't say anything either, and the room fell into silence, and in it Oliver tried to think of something to say. No, he knew what he wanted to say. He could feel it clawing its way out of him. But he couldn't do it. So Carl spoke. . .

"Why haven't you asked Sophia to be your girlfriend?"

"Oh, uh... I don't know," Oliver shrugged, inwardly cringing because he knew what he should've said.

"She told me about what happened, at her house. When you walked out."

Silence, and Oliver hated himself for it.

"She thinks you like someone else." Oliver looked then, snapping his head around, terrified. Carl watched, but didn't elaborate, instead he looked away, rubbed his mouth and said very quietly. . . "You need to tell her."

Oliver's heart froze. "Wh. . . what?"

Carl's lips parted, and Oliver looked at them, squinting a little, watching them talk, not really sure if he was ready to hear what was coming out of them. "Just, tell her. Whatever it is. Because it's not fair on her, and, I don't think it's fair on you either."

Oliver was going to say it. He couldn't not anymore. It was bursting from him. But Carl cut him off.

"I was thinking we could get back to our bucket list soon."

Oliver's breath stopped, and he swallowed, nodded. "Uh, yeah, right. Really has been a while, huh? I almost forgot about it." He saw the way Carl's face fell slightly, realising that lying wasn't a good strategy. "Um. Actually that... that wasn't true," he admitted. "I–I didn't forget." Actually he thought about the bucket list almost every day.

Carl smiled then, on only one side of his mouth, and he sat forward to reach into his pocket. "I was gonna show you at lunch, but, well, Benny and everything." He passed the familiar piece of folded paper over. There was a dried splatter of purple and turquoise water-colour paint on the edge now –one of Carl's art accidents again. "I added some," Carl said. "Also, I was thinking that we could actually stay up all night, _'on tumbler'..._ see?"

Oliver smiled, read:

 _1\. GO AT LEAST A STATE AWAY FROM HOME.  
_ _2\. PAINT SOMETHING.  
_ _3\. SAY SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _4\. SAVE A LIFE.  
_ _5\. DO ANYTHING INVOLVING CORN. OR PUDDING.  
_ _6\. PUNCH SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT.  
_ _7._ _GET DRUNK._ _ **X  
**_ _8\. STAY UP ALL NIGHT. (ON TUMBLR)  
_ _9\. SEE SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _10\. CAMP IN A TENT._ _ **X  
**_ _11\. SURVIVE SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU.  
_ _12\. TAKE A DRUG.  
_ _13\. JUMP OFF A CLIFF._ _ **X  
**_ _14\. SEE A CONCERT.  
_ _15\. SAY SOMETHING IMPORTANT.  
_ _16\. STEAL SOMETHING._ _ **X  
**_ _17\. HAVE A MOVIE MARATHON.  
_ _18\. GO FISHING. (CATCH AT LEAST ONE FISH)  
_ _19\. GET LOST._ _ **X  
**_ _20\. SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF. (That won't result in substantial injury, death or kidnap.)  
_ _21\. JUMP OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.  
_ _22\. COOK A MEAL._ _ **X  
**_ _23\. Find the best pizza place._ _ **X  
**_ _24\. MAKE A PROMISE.  
_ _25\. GET OLIVER OUT OF BED WITHOUT TACO BELL BRIBERY.  
_ _26\. MAKE TACO THURSDAY A THING.  
_ _27\. READ HIS FAVORITE BOOK.  
_ _28\. CUSS._

Oliver was still laughing at number twenty-five, and when he kept reading he said, "I'm not sure I have _one_ favourite book."

"I'm up to read more than one."

"Alright," Oliver said, determined, suddenly, clearing his throat of the lump in it. But he wasn't upset. Right now, Oliver's heart was swelling madly. He was a little worried that it might spill over the both of them before he could stop it. "Cuss," he said. "Right now. Cuss for me, right here, right now."

"Talk about talking dirty," Carl laughed.

Oliver was aware of how warm his cheeks were, that _keep-talking-in-order-not-to-do-something-you'll-regret_ feeling becoming more urgent, so, "Come on," he said. "Say one starting with, uh... _T._ "

Oliver laughed when Carl actually had to think about it. "Uh... twat?"

Oliver snorted, "It's a start, man, I guess. What about–"

"Fuck!"

Oliver startled, the burst of laughter leaving him like a bolt of lightning. "Nice! Another."

"Dick. Goddamn! Uh... Ass. Bitch. Fucker-fucking-fucktard!"

"You _have_ to meet Penelope." Oliver was still laughing. "She'd freaking love you."

"Nuts," Carl replied, listing off on his fingers. "Prick. Cock... uh."

"Too many dicks, man," Oliver commented, and their laughter echoed through the room. It was a miracle the whole school couldn't hear them.

"Son of a bitch," Carl said, and Oliver didn't know if it was supposed to be another curse or a reply. Carl looked so thrilled, like every syllable that left him was the first word he'd ever uttered. "Sh–it!"

"Jesus," Oliver was laughing like he had on the phone those weeks ago. He wasn't sure anyone in the world could make him laugh like this. "I thought you were gonna say _sheep_ again."

"I almost did."

Carl continued cussing while Oliver crossed number twenty-eight off the list... several times.

"We should do number twenty-four, too."

"Fucking tit douche yes," Carl said.

"Hey, cussing's fun," Oliver tutored. "You just gotta pick your timing right." Carl snickered. "Wait, why don't you ever cuss anyway?"

"A mixture of dad-cop conditioning and the fact that my grandma would murder me if she heard Judith copying me."

"Oh God, yeah, Em once cussed to my mom. It was ugly." Carl was grinning again. "Okay," Oliver said, focussing. "Number twenty-four, make a promise. But I was thinking, we've already kind of made one, right?" Carl frowned, but was listening. "To do this together," Oliver said, and Carl nodded. "Okay, so, lets change it to..." he read out as he wrote, and Carl leant over to read close enough that his chin was almost on Oliver's shoulder, but even when Oliver glanced at him, he didn't move away. " _Keep_ a promise," he wrote. "How's that?"

Carl smiled, "Sounds good." He held out his hand, and Oliver took it, and they shook. Only, they didn't fully let go once they were done. They dropped; their hands, one atop one kneecap beside each other, and then their pinky fingers brushed. Carl's right and Oliver's left. Touching but not touching. Until their little fingers twisted, linked, and the outside of their hands pressed, then their kneecaps. Oliver could feel the warmth on himself, it bled through the points of contact and into the rest of him, made him tickle, but like a weird tickle, forbidden but good but bad all at once, a tickle that he wanted to help with tighter finger locking and closer shoulder pressing and longer unnecessary eye contact.

It terrified him.

They read through their bucket list, very carefully ignoring their extremities. But Oliver couldn't focus. At all. He was hyper sensitive. He could feel his nerves reacting and aching, like every million one of them had their own free will and were all rushing to the places they were being touched. He could feel Carl's finger and hand twitch even though both hardly moved. He could feel his pulse, thumping through his extremity, and it was fast, pulsating through the both of them. He knew that they should've been heading back to Sociology. He knew that he should've let go. But he didn't want to. He wanted to be sat right here, with Carl, on the disgusting boy's bathroom floor, pretending to read their bucket list but actually thinking about how warm Carl's shoulder was pressed against him, how his breath blow softly down his forearm, and how it felt like electricity to touch his hand and feel the calluses on the base of his finger. It took Oliver a moment to realise that he was looking at him now, and he only did because Carl had noticed as well, and he looked, too, their eyes meeting. Brown on blue.

But neither looked away.

"Why..." Oliver had to try again when the single syllable took his breath away. "Why do you write in capitols?"

Carl looked down at his lap, and his brow arched when he looked up to their hands. Oliver watched the way his lips pursed when he looked to the side because looking at laps and hands weren't the socially acceptable places to be looking right now.

Then Carl spoke. . .

"Why do you say you're fine when you're miserable?"

Oliver had to look away. He wanted to pull at his beanie and tap his fingers, but Carl pressed his shoulder against him again, on purpose this time, awaiting his answer, and Oliver looked at him without looking, his eyes on the floor beside him because the blue was still too blue, and his own shoulder pressed back, lightly and carefully.

". . . Carl?" he whispered, breathed.

"Yeah?" Carl, too.

 _Oh no,_ Oliver thought. _It's happening again. That talking back thing._

"I. . ."

Wait.  
No.  
This wasn't that at all.  
This was something else entirely.  
This was a confession.  
This was the truth.

". . . I really like you."

Oliver made his eyes meet Carl's, seconds passing like hours. He could see the words. They were stinging Carl's throat. Clinging there like mud in his efforts to get them out. But Carl bit them back before Oliver could hear them, and he unwound their fingers and pulled his shoulder away.

"I'm sorry." It fell out of Oliver's breath, bile rising, his voice small and fast. "I-I shouldn't have told you that." He stood up, fumbling, terrified, making for the door. "I'm... I'm sorry." His hand took the handle, pulled, but the moment he was about to step out of the bathroom Carl had grabbed the hem of Sophia's hoodie and yanked. Oliver stumbled back, and he startled, spinning around, his breath fast and shallow, and the door clunked closed behind him when Carl shoved him against it. Oliver was afraid. Carl looked so furious that Oliver thought he would hit him.

He tried to apologise again, whimpering it, bracing for the knee to come up against his groin, the fists to get thrown, but it was lips that collided with him instead.

At first Oliver grimaced, made a noise like a grunt and a whimper and a yelp, taken off guard, and his hands came up to Carl's chest, bawled into a fist against his T-shirt, about to push him away, but he felt Carl's breath hitch, his hand up against the back of Oliver's head, and Oliver stilled, settled, empathy swamping him like he'd just been hit by a train. And then he got to realising what was happening, and he got to thinking about how much he'd wanted this to happen for weeks, how much he liked it, how much he really, _really_ liked it, and his hands travelled up, too, holding Carl's jaw, feeling it move against him, his lips pushing and tugging and pressing. His own mirroring them in synchronised franticism. Their feet were shuffling, and the door jolted against Oliver's spine.

"Wait," Oliver said. "Carl. Carl, wait."

Carl didn't look any less infuriated when he pulled away. His eyes were watery and his tears had run on Oliver's face, too. Oliver's breath shook. Under his fingertips, Carl's jaw was clenched, either in anticipation or frustration Oliver couldn't tell, and it scared him, so, so much, so he let his hands slip down to Carl's chest again, spreading his fingers, and it scared him even more when he could feel how fast and irregular his heart was pounding. Oliver's neck was rigid, trying to and trying not to tip forward, but he felt Carl's nose against his own, he felt his top lip with both of his, his eyelashes when he blinked. Blinked and blinked and blinked. _Let it be,_ he told himself. _Let it be now, Oliver._

Why couldn't he do it?  
. . . . . Why?  
. . . Why couldn't he let it be anymore?

Oliver thought he was going to implode. He felt Carl shift, thought that he had enough rationality to do what he couldn't. But seconds passed, minutes, and they were still staring, still shuffling. So close that their lips would brush. So delicately. So, so, so delicately. Oliver thought he was going to black out, aware of how intimate this was. Wildly and inappropriately and terrifyingly. Because Carl was looking at him so deeply and so intensely that the blue hurt. It drove into his mind, found the most dangerously vulnerable place and clawed its way inside. Their foreheads pressed, exchanging their hurried breath. Until it was Carl who finally spoke first. His voice came short. Breathless. His eyes darting to everywhere on Oliver's expression that he could see. . .

"Oliver..."

That was all he said.

"Carl," Oliver answered, and then, "what're we doing?"

Carl shook his head, his brow arching desperately. Oliver swallowed, dread making his breath stop and his stomach knot. "I..." the younger started, but their lips touched again, and Carl's breath shook his whole chest. "I-I don't know. I don't know, Oliver." It was like a cry for help. Like the boy was some survivor stranded in a small space about to get eaten by the dead. Because Carl's anger had turned into something else now, something worse. Fear. Oliver could hardly look at him, but at the same time he couldn't look away. "I-I don't kn–"

"Do it again."

Carl looked up, suddenly, his face tightening.

"Please," Oliver whispered, starting his sentences like he didn't have the energy to complete them. "Carl. Do it. Again." They were both trembling. "Then. Then let... l-let it be."

Carl nodded, and his chin rose, moving closer. But they hesitated. Carl's eyes were so sad that Oliver feared he could never _let it be_ if he stayed this close, this intense. He was hardly aware when Carl's hand lifted, fingertips grazing up to Oliver's eyelids. Oliver knew what he was doing, that their _unnecessary eye contact_ was making this too close... too _something._ _S_ o he closed them for him. Which helped. Which, at the same time didn't.

Oliver felt dizzy when their lips met again. Their kisses neat and simple and slow and soft. Gentle. Each boy holding a passion inside himself that he tried with everything in him to compress. But, the other's contact was fire, and it consumed the both of them. Every time Oliver thought he would pull away, something bit him. Right in his gut. Yanked with hungry, jagged, infectious teeth. Oliver knew the only way to stop it was to keep kissing him, and so that was what he did. So it was Carl who brought them apart, suddenly pulling himself back so fast that Oliver almost stumbled.

"This... this isn't a good idea."

Oliver couldn't speak. He had to concentrate. _Don't. Please don't,_ he begged himself. _Please don't let him see me cry. Just don't let him see me cry._

"I don't wanna do this!" Carl said, ordered, like he wasn't even talking to Oliver anymore. But then he suddenly _was_ talking to Oliver. "You can't do this," he hissed at him, grimaced, pointed a finger, prodding Oliver's chest. Oliver tried to knock it away, muttering for him to stop. But Carl did it again, harder, pushing him against the door. "You can't do this to me!" he yelled. "I'm not... I'm not–"

"Stop, please."

"Quit–"

"Carl, listen–"

" _Quit_ getting in my head," he warned, and he was seething through his teeth, his eyes welling. "Quit _making_ me feel like this!"

"I'm." Oliver understood now. Really understood. "I'm sorry." Oliver was crying now, and Carl was shaking his head, wincing. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone." Oliver's voice rose in pitch, choking on his guilt, and he felt the bomb in his throat, the emptiness in his gut, clutching around his middle and covering his mouth. He knew why Carl was acting like this. He knew that what how Carl had been feeling his whole life and what they were doing now was confusing and terrifying and infuriating, and what was worse, Oliver knew that he'd been making it worse. This whole time. The emailing. Sophia. Pretending there wasn't a problem when it was eating them both in every moment. Because they were both pretending. Pretending that they weren't this way. This way that neither had any control over. "I'm sorry."

Carl moved away, pacing the room.

"Carl, please?"

"No." Carl was crying, too. "I don't wanna do it anymore. I don't wanna feel like this, a-all the time." And then Oliver moved forward, his hand moving of its own accord to Carl's jaw, his other to his shoulder, wanting to console him, to say something to make him understand him and himself both. But. . . "N-no! Get... get off me."

"It doesn't have to be this bad."

"Let go!" Carl was yanking at Oliver's hands, at first he swatted, but their fingers tangled, and Carl pulled, and the two came so close that their noses were pressed again, but Carl pulled back, smacking Oliver's hands away, and he'd pulled the door open and clambered out into the hallway. "Don't touch me."

"It doesn't have to be terrifying," Oliver begged, beside himself, but he'd let go of him, and they were just staring at each other outside the bathroom. "I doesn't." Oliver faltered, realising he didn't know that for sure. He didn't know anything. "I-I don't think it has to be."

"No," Carl whimpered. "People'll hear."

"I know how it feels."

"Stop."

"I know it hurts and I know it's scary. I know, I d-"

"STOP!" Carl's palm came into contact with Oliver's shoulder, shoving. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

"You can't pretend," Oliver muttered, because he knew. "Not forever."

Then Oliver's feet left the floor, and he was thrown down, cried out when his jaw was yanked up against his will. Carl was pinning him down, a knee on either side of his chest, his fingers dug into Oliver's neck and jaw. Oliver winced, grunting, and his hands lurched up at him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. He heard it rip. But Carl was strong, and furious, and the moment Oliver'd managed to get his jaw free he was only rewarded with a fist, connecting right in the centre of his left cheek.

It stunned Oliver. Took the breath right out of him. Stars danced in his vision, and soon he could hear the familiar chorus of teenagers surrounding them, goading and chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like well paid extras. Oliver thought of home, in Lorton, the same thing happening almost every day. It made his blood boil.

Overpowering Carl Grimes in itself was not a simple task. There were hands and legs and supernaturally furious muscle-power to take into account. But Oliver got the upper hand when the heel of his palm jerked into Carl's Adam's apple, choking him, and he rolled over on top of him. Screaming at him.

"Go to hell!"

But all he saw was himself. Oliver hated it so much that it made him angrier. It made him draw his hand back, the power behind it charging like a high voltage electrical beam designed for maximum damage upon impact. It made him leave his own body and join the mass of chanters crowding them, only, he was cowering and begging himself to stop. And then he did. Suddenly. He came to, his chest and face throbbing, and he dropped his hand, heaving his breath.

"Please?" was what Carl and everybody else heard, but _I love you_ was what Oliver wanted to say. "Carl, please?"

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU TWO THINK YOU'RE DOING!"

At the distraction, Carl shoved Oliver off of him, cradling his sore neck and coughing, and Oliver was aware of the way the whole left side of his face was pulsating. They stared at Mr. Monroe, their principle. A tall man in his middle thirties with dark, neat, smooth hair and a clean shave on a square set jaw. Oliver swallowed when he tasted blood, felt a little of it trickle from his eyebrow, watching the students who'd escaped their classes rushing back inside when their teachers started yelling at them, hearing the noise of camera phones beeping as their recordings ended, the laughter and the disappointed and awed moans. Oliver felt sick.

"My office," Mr. Monroe growled. " _Right_ now."

* * *

 **Notes**

Thank you to **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** for a while back when you said Oliver was like a cat xD

So I made a slight boo-boo. I wrote that it was Judith's fifth birthday last chapter, when in fact it was her fourth. I've fixed it now. Sorry. I'm so bad at that stuff. Ugh. She's four months younger than Em. So, yes, like **Rolo-chan** realised, Oliver's mom was pregnant when she died :,( poor Em and Rosa.

Tell me what you thought xxx

 **If you didn't know already, chapter 1 of the third book is up, also, check out my newest two stories. _A different Perspective_ and _Girl_ :)**

As always,  
Happy reading : _)_


	12. Part 2: You

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Ahhh! That's so cute! Thank you x

 **Rolo-chan** No, like for most, the lack of Apocalypse has changed most characters drastically. Yeah, no, I don't think Ollie's gonna wanna even be seen for a while after what happened. I do have a plan for Scab. I superly love him like mad. He's inspired by a cat I met a while back that kind of took my breath away for how tragic it was haha Yeah, Sophia doesn't know about soccer camp or anything like that, and so she doesn't know how close Carl and Oliver really are - were. But the story'll go into that in a few chapters time xx don't worry. Thank you for your support! Adore you!

* * *

 **Friendly warning:** **This chapter may contain triggers for self harm.**

* * *

 **DRAFT**

 **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Subject: Carl.**

I didn't mean to hurt anybody.

* * *

 _He was thinking about the final game of soccer camp against the Walkers. The Survivors, Oliver's team, lost, which sucked because they'd won every game that season; dominating the Termites, just managing the struggle against the Marauders, completely annihilating the Wolves. But the Walkers? They were too brutal. Unstoppable. Like a force of nature. And so, after a long and traumatising fight, the Survivors succumbed to their unavoidable, gruesome fate._

" _Can't win 'em all, guys!" T-Dog said, supportively slapping any boy close enough on the back, and they'd smile and sometimes give him a high five. T-Dog was a good coach, so it was hard not to appreciate his efforts._

 _Some boy's parents were there to see the game. Oliver had spoken to his mom on the phone the day before and she'd told him his father would be there to pick him up instead, which Oliver thought was odd, but didn't say so. But the game had ended and Oliver was already packing his duffel bag, only, Mr. De Luca still hadn't arrived. The fifteen year old waited on the green by the office building and parking lot, watching boys and their families stroll past, congratulating and consoling on their game, and the boys looked disappointed but glad to be with their families again, with arms slung over shoulders and foreheads buried into chests. One boy'd even haggled his father into giving him a piggy-back._

 _But Oliver waited alone._

 _When T-Dog came out of the office and saw, him he asked if he was okay, and Oliver lied and told him his father was just in the bathroom. He didn't know why. He could've easily said that his father hadn't gotten there yet, but he was a little worried that_ 'because he's the world's most colossal dick head' _might slip out, too. But anyway, T-Dog nodded and went back inside, and Oliver got back to waiting._

 _Oliver looked over to the parking lot when he heard a squeal. He saw a woman with long, dark brown hair tied up in a loose bun pushing a stroller. She cooed to the excited baby inside, who let out another squeal. To their left was a man with short light brown hair, and from the hundred or so yards Oliver was away from them he could see the blue in his eyes. Then Oliver felt his stomach flip when he saw their son waiting by their car._

 _He hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to Carl. After the game ended Oliver had rushed off to find his father, thinking he'd been watching the whole time, keeping up the hope. But he wasn't. When Oliver went back to find his only real friend that summer before packing he couldn't find him anywhere. Even Carl's cabin was already empty when Oliver went over to see if he could catch him. It put a rock in his throat. But even then, watching Carl's father unlock the car, all of them climbing inside, Oliver knew he could've called out, but he didn't, he just watched, sunken and alone and miserable. Carl only noticed him as the car drove past, and he smiled, waved, until his pale hand simply pressed against the glass, and Oliver almost pretended not to notice out of that horrible mutant-butterfly-feeling in his gut. But at the last moment he_ had _to look, their eyes meeting, and he raised his hand and waved back lamely, but wasn't unable to pull his lips into a smile._

" _Goodbye_ _," he read on the blue eyed boy's lips._

" _. . . Goodbye, Carl."_

 _Oliver's father didn't arrive for another four and a half hours. All the cars and mini-buses and people were gone except the staff who couldn't go home yet because one of their boys was still there. T-Dog had brought out a hot chocolate for him, and when it started to rain Oliver was going to finally head inside, but his father rolled around the corner in his black Audi. The window rolled down, and Oliver saw Patrick and their father next to him. He was about to speak, but Patrick talked over him, "Dad's a colossal asshole. I know, dude."_

 _Oliver didn't speak. Once Mr. De Luca had quietly reprimanded his oldest son with a sharp glare until Patrick looked away. Then their father got out of the car, apologising to Oliver and blaming traffic and his phone for not reminding him to leave the cabin. He put his soaked duffel bag in the trunk for him, apologising again when Oliver slumped into the back seat and sat on a towel that was handed to him. Patrick greeted his brother with a short grunt, looking tired and irritated, Oliver wasn't sure why. Even when their father got back in the car and drove, none of them spoke. Not for a long time._

 _That was the day Oliver's father told them about the divorce._

* * *

Not though, Oliver was staring at the carpet below him. It was the kind of pale brown-yellow closer to yack. He could hear Rick and Mr. Monroe talking inside the Principle's office opposite. The, "I assure you, this isn't goin' without punishment,"s from Rick, and the, "Depending on the motives for what caused the fight and who started it, Carl could be facing a weeks suspension,"s from Mr. Monroe, and the, "What's happening to you this year, Carl?" because, "you started out so well this fall," and Carl's stubborn and furious silence in return in which Oliver could hear him screaming his hatred through the door at him.

Then there was an anxious Rosa De Luca flying around the corner at the end of the hallway, Emilio skidding along side her, dragged/carried from the hand he was clinging to. Oliver pushed himself back on his chair in an attempt to lengthen the time until he'd have to actually talk to her, saw them stop at the reception and ask where the Principle's office was. Her arm was full with _NoticingIt_ files, and her hair was wind swept and falling from its bun. Then she saw her middle son, sighed, carefully placing her things in front of him and pulling his chin to see his darkening bruise. Em straddled Oliver's foot and put his chin on his older brother's kneecap, staring curiously.

"Oh, Oliver," Rosa mewed, "what happ–"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Look," Rick said from inside the office, "I know the divorce's been hard on you, son. B–"

"This isn't about you or Mom!" Carl suddenly growled. "Or even Shane! This – _God!_ You're so... You're all so clueless!"

"We're only trying to get to the bottom of this," Mr. Monroe said.

"No," Carl hissed. "You're just trying to blame it on shit that isn't your business!"

"Carl!"

Then the very teenager burst out of the office. He almost marched right into Rosa, but stepped out of the way just in time and stormed past without looking back, ignoring his father's tempered calling after him.

"First it's getting into a fight," Rosa said. "And then I find out that it was with Carl."

"Mom."

"He's your best friend."

Oliver heard Rick apologising, profusely, and after a few minutes they came to the agreement that Carl's punishment would be detention for the next two school days, and for him to submit all of the overdue assignments he had. Oliver didn't know he'd been falling behind. He knew he'd been struggling to decide on what to do for his art final, and he knew that Sophia, Duane and himself had been helping Carl with a few subjects, but Oliver didn't know it was _that_ desperate.

When Rick left the office, the door shut behind him, and Oliver's stomach dropped to his feet. He apologised to Rick for the fight, and Rick nodded and then apologised to both Oliver and Rosa for his son's behaviour. He left, and a few minutes later the receptionist got a notification and told Oliver and Rosa that Mr. Monroe would see them now, and Oliver had to tense every muscle in his body in order to keep his organs inside him. Even his brain felt loose, like it might just start dribbling out of his ears or something.

Aiden Monroe smiled when they sat in the two chairs in front of his desk. The way you smile because you're paid to. According to Sophia, the previous Principle'd had a heart attack in his bathtub and died, and Mr. Monroe took over as temporary but ended up getting the full-time job. People said he was a dick, even the teachers. Oliver'd heard Mr. Blake mutter about how Monroe hounded him and goaded him, and as much as Oliver hated Mr. Blake he couldn't help but feel the same irritation. Mr. Monroe's mother, Denies or Deanna or something was some congress woman in Ohio or something and so Oliver wasn't surprised Aiden thought so highly of himself.

"What happened, Oliver?" was the first thing he asked after all the unnecessary greetings, and when Oliver didn't say anything, he added, "You left your class without permission. Why?"

Oliver inhaled uncomfortably. He was still wearing Sophia's hoodie. "It won't happen again, sir."

"You didn't answer my question," Monroe said quickly, clasping his fingers in focus, dark brows knitted, and his eyes widened patronisingly when he spoke next. "Why?"

"I wasn't feeling well."

"Did you buy any food?" Rosa asked him then, touching her son's arm, and it seemed only in that moment that she noticed his clothing. "Wait, where did your shirt go?"

"I got food on it," he said, and was glad it sounded like he'd answered both questions.

"Carl said it was stolen," the principle said.

 _Fuck._

"You're getting bullied again?" Rosa asked before Oliver could say anything. "Oliver, why haven't you told me about this?"

Oliver looked at her desperately, and she looked back, worried and afraid. Oliver didn't mean to let his eyes well, and he looked away when they did, and scowled to make up for the catch in his voice, "It was just today. It's whatever."

"What are you going to do about this?" she asked the principle.

"We've already contacted Benny's parents. It's not the first time we've had complaints about him."

"How'd you know it was him?" Oliver asked then, but already knew the answer.

"Carl told me earlier. Also a few of the faculty saw what happened."

There was a pause, and Oliver frowned, confused by why would Carl say anything about what happened at lunch. "Sir, I know that I shouldn't have left class, and I know I shouldn't have gotten into the fight. But I don't want to cause anymore tr–"

"Who threw the first punch, Oliver?"

Oliver froze. "I did."

Monroe sat back, frowning. "Well, it seems either Carl's lying or you are."

"Okay, well, I didn't. But he wouldn't have if I hadn't–" Oliver stuttered. "I mean, it was my fault he got so angry. So, technically I started it."

Mr. Monroe sat forward again, sighing, troubled. "It's not usual for me to have two students defend each other," he said, and looked genuinely confused by it. "Why did you make him angry, Oliver? What did you say to him?"

 _I told him I like him,_ Oliver thought. _And he kissed me. And I kissed him back. And it was the single greatest moment of my life. For the shortest moment. And now it's over and it's never going to happen again and that's always going to hurt... and there is nothing I can ever do about it._

"Is this over a girl?"

"No."

"You're both good friends with Sophia, aren't you?"

Rosa sat back, and she sighed, like she'd suddenly figured it all out. It made Oliver scowl at her. Em's eyes shot between every face in the room, most likely wondering something more along the lines of, _I wonder how many marbles I can fit up each of their noses._

"It's not," Oliver hissed. "This has nothing to do with Sophia."

"Alright," Mr. Monroe accepted. "But unless you give me anymore information I'm going to have to give you the same severity of punishment as I gave Carl." Oliver didn't say anything, just glared at the floor, putting up with Em picking at the snag on his pant leg. "Two days in detention then," Mr. Monroe sentenced. "Though, I think it's a good idea if you and Carl stay away from each other, so..." he wrote a detention slip for him, "you'll have your detentions Wednesday and Thursday."

"Yes, sir."

Oliver was about to get up and leave, but Mr. Monroe spoke. "One more thing, Oliver." The boy's heart fell, and he felt the blood drain from his face. "It's rather important."

"What is it?" Rosa asked.

"Quite a few of our staff saw what happened in the hallway before the fight, like I said."

Oliver's heart was pounding now, and his arms came up without thinking about it, hugging himself.

"Oliver..."

 _Don't._

 _Please don't._

"Where did your bruises come from?"

"I-I fell off my board."

"No..." Mr. Monroe said, very slowly, very seriously. "You see, I don't believe that." Rosa was staring at her son, thinking and thinking and thinking. Mr. Monroe asked, "Do you mind if I talk about this in front of your mother?"

"Yes," Oliver said, irritated.

"I'm not leaving," Rosa snapped. "Tell me what this is about?"

"Oliver?" Mr. Monroe ignored her.

"Excuse me!?"

"I can't share this without his consent," the man said, and it was the first time he'd ever said something like he really cared about it. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Oliver?" Rosa said, soft, and was staring at him. Oliver couldn't look back. He had to focus on the desk –follow the ridges of the wood with his eyes.

"Can I share, Oliver?"

It was one short, tense nod, and his non-consentual consent was given.

So Mr. Monroe started talking about self harm, and Oliver blacked out for most of it, there but not there, nodding or shaking his head blankly to the questions that did or didn't apply to him. He didn't cry, and he didn't express how terrible he felt or why he did the things he did to himself. Rosa was crying. It was a horrible kind of crying though. A stunned kind of crying. A _that's my son and I had no idea_ kind of crying. She didn't make a noise or scrunch her face up or wail into his chest like he'd been afraid she would. No. It was worse. She simply sat in silence and listened, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she didn't look at him anymore.

* * *

They were in the car now, driving home. They hadn't said a word to each other. Oliver was flipping through CDs, picking out something he hadn't really looked at, but he was pretending nothing was wrong as best he could, which didn't work very well because keeping up a front got pretty agonisingly exhausting after long enough, but he kept it up, like that guy Oliver read a story about, a Greek myth or something. How the guy had to hold up the sky forever. The Kooks started playing. The tears were still running down Rosa's face. She kept wiping them with her wrists.

"Stop crying, Mom," Oliver said, looking at her.

She stopped at a traffic light, a few blocks from home, and she was staring at the steering wheel, swallowing. Oliver gripped his biceps, but stopped when she shot her eyes to him, as if she thought that it was another act of damage, right in front of her. It made him wince in shame and guilt. _This_ was what he was afraid of. Her looking at him like she didn't even recognise him. Like she was scared of what he might do.

"Mom..." he said, but it was a plea this time. His voice was too high. Too raspy.

"Show me."

His brow knitted together. "N-no."

"Show me."

"I'm not g–"

" _Ora_!" She grabbed the hem of Sophia's hoodie, and he struggled, shoving her hands away, but she pulled, and she saw a small part of his stomach. Em started crying, unable to understand why everyone was so upset. " _Dio mio._ " Her hands went to her mouth, and the tears started all over again. " _Dio mio._ "

Oliver _was_ crying now, too, hugging himself, the hiccups threatening to explode his whole body. "I wanna go home."

"We're going home," she said, driving again when the light changed, hiccuping and sniffing. "Shh, Emilio. W-we're going home."

"No," Oliver whimpered. "I wanna go _home,_ Mom."

"You _can't_ go home!" she barked. Em screamed. "This is our home now! You have to learn to accept that! You have to deal with it better than this! Better than what you're doing to yourself!" Oliver glared at her, then looked at the dashboard. "Look at what you're doing, Oliver! I doesn't just hurt you!"

"You don't have any idea."

"Then tell me," she begged. "How do you expect me to help unless you tell me? You're digging yourself a hole and not doing _anything_ to get out of it."

He kicked the dashboard furiously. "You're such a fucking bitch!"

The car stopped, suddenly, and Oliver lurched forward against its momentum and seatbelt. But it didn't matter. He could see their suburb ahead. So he slammed the car door open and marched, ignoring Em's wails and his mother's shouting, even when she drove past ahead of him.

When he got home and headed up to his bedroom he found Em under his desk, waiting for him. "Get out!"

When Em didn't, just staring in shock, Oliver screamed at him again, cursing, and Em scrambled out of the bedroom crying his eyes out. Rosa heard the arguing, yelled at Oliver for it, and Oliver yelled back, and, caught up in the moment, told her that he wished he lived with his dad, and then, caught up in the moment, too, she'd yelled at him to hurry up and leave already. Oliver hated this; taking his anger out on the people who didn't deserve it. But he was so angry. He was so angry and ashamed and sorry.

* * *

He was showering. He wanted to cry, and he thought he would. But Oliver wasn't doing anything. He was simply stood, leant against the wall, hugging himself and feeling the water pouring over him. When he blinked, his fringe moved against his eyelids. When he breathed he wanted to cough from the steam, but didn't have the energy to. However, he had enough energy to close his fist around the faucet. He had enough energy to twist it away from warmth to scolding. It was the kind of energy that wasn't really energy at all. Like it wasn't even _him_ at all. Like it was just an action driven by self-hatred and the need for justice by a hand that could only be his own. It burnt, the water. Scalded. Oliver shuddered under it, wincing, grinding his teeth, but he took it. _This'll make it okay,_ that voice inside his head told him, and Oliver believed it. It was all he wanted. _This'll make everything okay._ He felt his skin boiling, and he bit back his whimpers, felt the hiccups and gasps fighting at his throat, heaved in the steam.

 _Breathe. Twist. You deserve it._

 _This'll make everything okay._

He stopped when the scald became so much that he collapsed to his knees, hands trembling when he struggled to keep enough consciousness to turn it off. He wasn't sure how long it'd been, but fear of passing out was enough to force him to call mercy on himself, and he had to kneel there for a few minutes, catching his breath, trying not to move, waiting for his skin to stop screaming. _Why?_ he begged himself. _Why did you do it? After everything that happened today?_ But he had his answer. It washed over his whole being as he knelt there in the numbness, feeling and not feeling anymore. So far gone that he didn't have to think anymore and all he _was_ was existing. The high that his perpetual low was temporary relieved from. But that was the problem. That is _was_ temporary. Because after a while he was forced back to reality, and slowly, sorely, he pulled himself to stand and climb out of the shower.

He heard his mother walk past the door and waited a few moments for her to go back downstairs again before heading across the landing and into his bedroom, and he very carefully didn't look in the mirror as he dried himself. But Oliver did look in the mirror once he'd managed to dress himself. No, he glared. _If looks could kill,_ he thought. _I wish._ His neck was red, blotchy, his eyes blood shot – he must have been crying then. His mind felt frazzled, fighting the internal battle that was destroying him, and so he put a button up flannel and a scarf on to cover his sore skin, and he only let his shoulders relax once he'd pulled his beanie on over his hair, sighing as he smoothed over his fringe and ears. _A little more in control._ He looked in the mirror again, watched himself. _See,_ his reflection told him, _feels better now, huh?_ and Oliver said back, _I hate you,_ and all his reflection said back was, _I know, man. I hate you, too._

The doorbell rang.

It startled him, and Oliver listened to his mother answer, anticipated the passive aggressive exchanges between his parents with a rock in his gut. But they never came.

"Hey, Mom."

Oliver saw his own eyes widen in his reflection, recognising the voice instantly. "Patrick?" Rosa said. It never really occurred to Oliver how much he missed his brother. Not until this moment. This moment meaning _this-moment-he-ran-so-fast-at-his-door-that-he-almost-snapped-it-in-two_. He gasped, clutching his arms and neck, wincing at the agony, but he didn't have time to think about that, because he was crashing the door open, flying downstairs. He stopped at the end of the staircase, listening to the way Em was squealing at the top of his lungs, the way his mother was crying and laughing all at once.

"I didn't know you were with your dad?" Rosa cried, muffled.

"Yeah," Patrick said. "Thought I'd surprise you."

Oliver was grinning, almost hopping on one foot Em _ly_ for how ecstatic he was. But he regained himself and walked around the landing wall corner to see his family, shrugging, "Pretty lame surprise, man," he lied.

Patrick grinned at him and put Em down on the porch step. The little boy ran off down the driveway, screaming for his father who Oliver could hear was getting out of the car, greeting the child. But Oliver was still looking at Patrick. In three months his older brother looked... _older._ Oliver had never really thought about how old Patrick looked, since one hardly notices someone's appearance change while growing up with them. But Oliver saw it now. He saw the unchanged things: the thick rimmed, black glasses and the olive skin and the dark brown eyes. But he also saw the changed things: Patrick had grown, it seemed, in both height and muscle mass, and he had that famous five o'clock shave that he'd written about in their email that now Oliver was seeing it thought it made him look pretty badass, and he had part of his eyebrow missing for some reason, and his hair was cut shorter, not a lot, but Oliver definitely double glanced at it.

"Hi, Oliver."

"Hey, Pat."

It was only then that Oliver realised his eyes were watering, felt the way his chin trembled, as if this was the first time he'd seen him in years rather than months. Like he'd died and this was just some kind of alternative universe where he'd see him for a fleeting moment before waking up again, and so for this single moment it was just his brother. Every other problem washed away like a breeze.

They were hugging.

Oliver felt like a kid. But he didn't care. He hugged his brother back, and it was such a moving moment for Patrick too that he even kissed the top of Oliver's head and gripped onto his shoulder, muttering a rather weak-sounding, "Sap," into Oliver's ear.

Oliver laughed, pulling away, wiping his face. "Ass," he muttered back, and Patrick laughed. Oliver saw a hand slip onto his older brother's shoulder, and Patrick stepped aside and took Em to let their father greet his middle son. Oliver's dad had always been a man who valued the way he presented himself. He shaved his face and moisturised his hands. So, Oliver didn't mean to stare when he saw, for the first time in his life, that his father had facial hair. Not just a five o'clock shave like Pat's either. But a full-on _beard._ Their hug was a lot shorter, but while it lasted Oliver still closed his eyes and tried to hold onto the way hugging his father felt.

"How's it going, bud?"

"Alright."

"Ready to go?"

Oliver nodded, turned away to his mother, but saw the way she was looking at him. "Mom."

"Oliver," she replied.

"Please. M-Mom–"

She turned to her ex-husband before Oliver could protest anymore. "Can I talk to you?"

He nodded, frowning only a little. "I guess, Rosa."  
They went into the kitchen, and Oliver ignored Patrick's questioning glance at him, tried to growl at him to stop when he went to eves-drop on their conversation. Oliver wanted to grab him by the wrist and yank him out all the way to the creek in Lorton, tell his parents, _sorry but he's been my brother longest and I need him to not hate me the most._ But he didn't. Just felt himself trembling, and so he turned to his little brother, who he needed not to hate him second most, hugged him, scooping the little boy up from the floor and curling him around his middle like a lazy puppy. All the while Em was crying hysterically.

"Don't be sad, Em," Oliver said. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when he was consoling his little brother. Em's problems always seemed far more distressing than anyone else's.

"W-why d-do you h-have... t-to go... w-without me?"

"You're too little to go to the lake, man."

"It's s-so un... unfair!"

Oliver rocked the little blubbering boy in his arms, smiling sadly into his tiny shoulder. "I know."

"Life's a bitch," Em mumbled into Oliver's armpit.

Oliver looked at Patrick, expecting his older brother to laugh at what Em'd said. But Oliver's expression dropped, because Pat was staring at him, his expression hard and shocked. _He knew,_ Oliver knew it. Hated it. So he ignored it and focussed on Em.

"You know what'll help?" he asked the little boy seriously, and Em shook his head in earnest, crying again. Oliver could feel him biting his sweater, clamping the fabric between his teeth as if he could hold on to it like a Jack Russell Terrier on a chew toy, tried not to roll his eyes. "Lego. Lego always makes you feel better, right? Me, too, yeah?" Em settled, and Oliver let him slip onto the hallway floor again, smiling at him (sort of wiping the slobber from his sweater) and drying his little cheeks with his thumbs. "Go play Legos, man. I wanna see what you build when I'm back."

Em nodded, backed away and hugged Rosa's leg, staring up at their father hopelessly. Because they both had come out of the kitchen now. Oliver's dad smiled at him, watching him, the same way he smiled and watched his patients. Oliver looked away, felt like he was about to get forced into a straitjacket and carted out to the car.

But then Rosa was hugging him. " _Ti amo_."

Oliver shut his eyes and hugged her back, kissed her cheek, whispered, "Sorry for yelling," into her ear. Meant it. Really really. She cupped his nape and he hugged her tighter, sighing into her neck.

"Let's go, dude," Patrick said, and Oliver pretended not to notice the attempted affinity in his voice. "We've got a seven hour drive ahead of us."

Oliver's father said that when the three of them got back Sunday he and Em would do something together before he'd go back to North Carolina, just the two of them, father and youngest son. Oliver hoped he meant it.

* * *

On the drive North-East, nobody brought up what happened at school or what Rosa had told Oliver's father. They'd bought a KFC meal each for supper. Oliver found out that Patrick's eyebrow scratch was from Scab. In one of Pat's latest attempts to _coax_ the feline to Alexandria again, the cat'd apparently gifted him with a swift right cross across his face. Patrick said he was lucky the stupid cat didn't take his eye out, and Oliver said he could stop trying if he wanted to, but Patrick'd always been a competitive son of a bitch and said it would take more than that to make him give up. Oliver wondered what it _would_ take.

They arrived at half past midnight.

But anyway, after all of the KFC and Scab talk, Oliver was dead to the world when they rolled up to the driveway. The radio had been on, and he only woke when it and the engine turned off. His eyes opened to blackness, a hand lifting to wipe his breath-condensation away from the window. He'd been to this place a lot over his life. Not _a lot,_ a lot. But enough to be familiar. He remembered the trees that were in the background on every direction. He watched the shimmering, black surface of the lake through the tree line, the hills across it, black at this time at night, too, and the anticipation for morning prickled at Oliver's chest. He looked up Still Avenue and saw the few other cabin houses dotted along it. It wasn't much here. But, it _was,_ too. It was one of Oliver's favourite places in the world.

"You got that?" his father asked, and Oliver nodded, grabbing his full rucksack and laptop case, pretending to smile when his father put his hand on his shoulder and walked with him and Patrick to the front door, on his cell-phone emailing.

It was old, the cabin. Inside the floorboards creaked and the wallpaper was faded and peeling in a few of the corners. There was still old moth bitten furniture that their father was either too sentimental or too busy to replace, and it smelled like stale herbs and tobacco. But being here made Oliver feel static with nostalgia. The cabin had two bedrooms. Patrick and Oliver usually took turns to sleep on the couch. This time it was Oliver's turn. He didn't mind. He said goodnight to his father and brother, avoided Patrick's hovering by retreating into the bathroom to dress into his pyjamas, then set up his pillow and blanket. But Patrick hadn't left.

"Night," Oliver tried. But as had already been expressed, Patrick was a stubborn son of a–

"Heard what Mom and Dad said, earlier."

"Invasion of privacy's always been the thing I hate most about you."

"Oliver, I'm serious."

"So am I."

Patrick regarded him, clenching his under-bitten jaw. Pushing his glasses up his nose and sniffing. "Look, it's only a matter of time before Dad goes full-shrink on you about it. And, I know she doesn't say so, but Mom's hurting. Bad."

Oliver scowled, aware of the knife that had twisted in his gut. The thing was, he'd put it there himself. "You think I don't know that?" Patrick went quiet. "I sat in a room and listened to my principle talk to me like I'm some messed up asylum patient. All while she cried and listened and didn't even look at me. And I told her she was a bitch for it."

"I'm sorry."

Oliver snatched his book from his backpack, yanked down his sleeve when it rode up too far. "Don't say your sorry," he snapped, marching past his brother out to the backyard. "Don't say it when it isn't your place to."

The argument ended there. So Oliver went and sat on the grass and tried to read, giving up after a while from the lack of light. Instead listening to music on his phone. In terms of music, Oliver was only ever in one of three moods: 1. listening to every song in his whole music collection on shuffle, or 2. picking one song and listening to it on repeat for days until the song made his ears want to vomit, and 3. what he was doing now, restlessly skipping every song he came across. But after a while mosquitoes were getting attracted by the light and so he switched it off, choosing quiet instead.

Though, the quiet here at the cabin was different. The quiet wasn't quiet at all. It was insects ticking, bats squeaking, birds flapping, wind rustling and lake water sloshing against the shore. It was a different kind of music. Suddenly Oliver remembered how much he loved it. So he sat back and listened. The cool of the grass stung his skin at first, but when he pressed his exposed arms and neck to the cold grass blades it began to sooth him. Like an ice pack on a sprained ankle.

The sky was so bright. Their was no cloud or light pollution. Just stars and galaxies. He wanted to tell Penelope. He wanted to tell her so badly that he reached for his phone again. But he stopped, suddenly, because his eyes caught something opposite the yard. A window in the cabin next door, though, the window itself wasn't particularly interesting. What had caught his attention was the fact that the last time he saw the window it was stacked high with books, almost to the top, but now they were all gone, replaced with what Oliver could make out was a hair brush and the back of a picture frame. Then, beyond that, he made out a silhouette. The last Oliver knew an old man called James Wellington used to live there. But that wasn't who he saw in the silhouette, even through the dark he knew that. He couldn't make out anything other than the fact that she was a girl, or woman, he couldn't quite tell, and that she had long, straight hair. He could see the shadows of her collar bones as she looked down at something, a magazine or something probably, and he wondered if she was naked for a moment or maybe that she was just wearing minimal clothing.

Then his phone _ding!_ ed.

He pulled himself to sit up, startling. But the light that notified him of his email blew his whereabouts, and the girl looked up at him. Though, she didn't rush away, and so Oliver didn't either, and so he and the stranger kept looking at each other for a moment. Oliver knew that she could easily see him from the light of the kitchen behind him. He wondered if he should be looking at her at all, if maybe it was weird to even though all he could see was her face's silhouette, but she didn't seem startled, and he didn't feel like their acknowledgements of each other was anything other than simple coincidence, and so, in the end, after a few moments, the girl simply pulled her curtain over. Oliver went back inside, checking the email that had blown his unintentional cover.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 30** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 01:16am  
** **Subject: OLIVER DE LUCA: THE FASCINATING HUMAN BEING CREATURE THING**

So, I just saw this interesting video that you were tagged in on Facebook. . . Who do you need me to kill? Just Carl? Or any of his other minions, too? Unless this was your fault, then, you know, we can talk this out and we can debate over who needs to die.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 30** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 01:22am  
** **Subject: Edit: OLIVER DE LUCA: THE WORST TYPE OF HUMAN BEING CREATURE THING**

Homicide isn't necessary. Don't worry about it.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 30** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 01:23am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

It looked pretty brutal. You okay, Ollie?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: May 30** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 01:25am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I'm fine.

* * *

She called. Oliver couldn't say he was surprised. Though, he could say that he wasn't up for talking. So he simply answered and held the phone to his ear. Penelope was always the one to talk anyway. . . "Hey," she said, and then, "I can send you porn again if you'd like?"

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

She sighed. "I know you're not."

He wanted to cry. He wanted to crawl through the cell-phone and bury his face into her front until it didn't hurt anymore.

"I've got this theory," she said next, dubious and Penelopely. "Stop me if I'm wrong though, okay?"

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice from breaking.

"Okay," she repeated, then came out with it like reading one of her short stories. "So: Boy meets boy... Boy likes boy. Like, really _really_ likes boy. Like boy likes pudding." Oliver laughed, the sobbing kind, and Penelope paused, waiting for him to tell her she was wrong, and kept going when he didn't. "And boy tells boy. And then boy gets scared. Resulting in online sharing of the outcome-beat-up that's spreading close to the speed of that Charlie bit my finger video."

Oliver wanted to laugh and throw his phone at the wall all at once.

"You didn't stop me," Penelope said softly.

"No," Oliver confirmed.

She sighed again. "Ollie," she whispered. "I'm here to hear. And it's okay."

"It's not okay," he muttered.

"Sometimes it's okay not to be okay," she said.

So he told her. About Carl and Sophia and what he'd been doing to himself. At first it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, to actually say it all in words, but it got easier. And he started to fall asleep telling her. Because telling Penelope was like therapy, better than his parents could ever offer. Because that was how Penelope worked. You could tell her anything and she wouldn't create her own opinion about it unless you wanted her to. Like it didn't matter to her. Like she was just some brilliant bank safe that you could keep all your darkest secrets inside of without having to second guess its reliability. So, when the words had worn themselves out, and when Oliver had just started repeating himself, his head hidden under his pillow, body melted into the couch, his phone squashed between it and his ear, he could feel himself not feeling like he needed to punish himself. He could feel himself mending, just a little, just enough, just barely.

"I really love him," he kept whispering, and she would whisper back, "And that's okay," and he'd drift further, mend more, and he'd whisper it again, "I really love him," and she would whisper it again, too, "And that's okay," and he could feel her magic working on him, like always, and in that Penelope Magic he finally let himself slip away into unconsciousness.

* * *

 **Notes**

I love Nell.

Another boo-boo. Carl originally said, "I used to get panic attacks, too," but I've changed it to his mom who gets them.

Tell me what you thought about this one? Mr. Monroe? Rosa's reaction? How Oliver treated her and Em? PATRICK! (I had a giggle at the AU/main story reference bit about him) and the cabin and his father? Ooh, and the stranger in the window? Who could it be? (probs pretty obvious...)

As always,  
Happy reading xx : _)_


	13. Part 2: Cool

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Promise you will find out soon about Lori, Shane and that part x Thank you!

* * *

Oliver was studying. He felt especially _cool_ this morning. It was on a rare occasion that Oliver ever felt genuinely _cool._ But he thought he owed it to himself because he was at the lake slaving over History text books rather than losing himself under the water and trying to get over his fear of minnows and trout. He was wearing his usual attire; jeans, sneakers, beanie and a Ghostbusters merch T-shirt, which wasn't really all that cool at all. But he had sunglasses on, which, obviously, were the Ultimate Automatic Cool Consummators. They were mirrored Aviator sunglasses: the definition of _cool._ Oliver had actually found them on the shore a few minutes ago. He brushed them off and tried them on for size, and now. . .

He felt _cool._

Patrick had gone on a walk, which meant that he would be out for most of the day. He'd most likely come back with some grocery shopping though, which Oliver knew would mostly consist of alcohol and Doritoes.

And so, Oliver was reading and noting about Pearl Harbour, highlighting the parts that looked like they should be highlighted. Clair De Lune was playing loudly in his ears from his phone. Clair De Lune might not seem all that cool, but when you're sat on a pebble beach with mirrored Aviators on and your toes dug in the stones and a textbook in your lap, it _becomes_ cool.

But he noticed that someone was watching him. He looked up without moving his head, saw the girl stood a few hundred yards away on the pebbly shore, her head tilted, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. She was wearing sandals, a pair of cut off, knee length shorts and a purple long-sleeve cardigan over a T-shirt that had a rock band logo on it, and on her back was a black rucksack with badges on its straps. He looked down at his paper again and hoped she would go away, anxiety making his gut twinge, keeping his mind from focussing on anything as far back as 1941. But almost a minute passed in 2015, and the girl didn't budge. So he looked up again, moving his head this time, pulling an ear bud out. "Erm..."

"So you're a peeping tom _and_ a thief?"

He remembered the silhouette last night, the slender body and long hair. Very suddenly, Oliver didn't feel cool anymore.

"Aren't you gonna say something?"

"Erm..." He mentally slapped his tongue to get it to work properly. "I didn't know I was peeping."

"Did you see any clothes?"

Oliver almost startled. He thought he would wince, but instead he murmured, "I didn't notice," to her instead, and she scowled like he'd just as much insulted her, which, 1. wasn't his intention, and so 2. he _really_ had no idea what else to say. "Um. W-what did I steal?"

She pointed to the shades on his face. "Those."

"Would you like them back?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said irritably, "would you like to keep your balls attached to your body?"

"Yes please," he said quickly.

She shrugged, "Then you have your answer, don't you?"

He took the sunglasses off, and she stepped over, held her hand out, let him drop them into her palm, and when her fingers closed around them she nodded and put them on, then walked away.

* * *

 **From:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: May 30** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 10:07am  
** **Subject: Talk to me?**

Oliver, please? I'm not upset at you. You've vanished and Carl's acting weird and Duane hasn't got a clue what's going on at all. Just, talk to me? Please?

* * *

His dad was on the phone.

Ever since the email he'd ignored came through Oliver had been wandering around the house reading one of his Horror comics. He was reading a pretty intense scene in which the characters were escaping from their home, which was actually a prison, walking dead and bad people everywhere, but one of the main characters had just gotten shot, and she fell, crushed her baby girl to death in the process. Her ten year old son and husband had to leave them behind. It was horrible. In these intense reading moments, Oliver could never sit down.

"Buddy?"

Oliver stopped, looked up. "Yeah."

"Could you... not?"

"What?"

"You're pacing."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah..." his father said, rubbing the beard Oliver still wasn't used to, "well, it's distracting me. I gotta focus on this call."

Oliver nodded, closed his comic and took a seat on the couch.

His father went back to his call, but after a moment he looked up at Oliver again, frowning like he'd tasted something bad. "Why don't you go to the lake?" his dad asked, "shouldn't you've grown out of comics by now?"

Oliver frowned, sort of pushed the comic behind him, "I'm, uh. I'm waiting for Pat to come back. He said we'd go at sunset."

"You can't go now?"

Oliver felt awkward. His father was smirking, the same smirk that Oliver had inherited. It irritated him, because Oliver understood that he was using the _don't take it personally_ excuse so that his son wouldn't take his words the wrong way, even though the wrong way was exactly how it was. His father went back to his call, apologising to, presumably, his agent for the interruption, and for once Oliver felt like he might actually say something. Maybe, _Why don't you put the fucking phone down and come with me?_ Or, just, _No._ But the doorbell rang.

"Hey. Bud? Could you get that?"

He expected a postman, or a kid asking if they could go into the backyard and get their ball back. But that wasn't who was at the door. He saw the sunglasses first. His own startled reflection in the mirrored Aviators. Her hair was up in a ponytail now, and her lips were pursed and pulled together into the shape of an annoyed-looking heart.

"Erm."

"So I've gotta go to the store and buy groceries and my mom says that she doesn't want me to go on my own this late in the evening and she was gonna come with me but she's a pretty big style-cramper and my dad's not home from work until nine and since you're the only friend I've made in this town so far and I haven't seen you hanging out with anyone either I figure you'd like to come with me." Oliver wasn't sure how she'd said it all without taking a breath until now. "My name's Enid, by the way. What's yours?"

"Friend?"

She nodded, "Want proof?"

"Erm."

"Here." She took off her Aviators and handed them to him. "You can borrow them if you want?" Oliver sort of held them like they might jump up and attack him, and so the girl stepped forward, unfolded them and put them on for him. When she stepped back again, she smiled. "Cool, huh?"

Oliver smiled then, too, kind of overwhelmed. "Yeah," he said, meaning it, seeing the world a shade more bearable. "Cool."

* * *

"My name's Oliver, by the way."

"Cool. Hey, did you know that your brother smokes weed?"

"Yes," Oliver said, walking. "Has done on and off for a while. Um." There was no doubting that this part of North Carolina was very deep into the country side. Enid and Oliver were walking down the main road to and from their lake area cul-de-sac kind of place. Which wasn't really a cul-de-sac at all. More, a countrified version of one. The road they were on was flat and long with a big red barn in the corn field to their left. It was old and falling apart with weeds and vines growing up the walls, and the paint was rotten and peeling. In the past fourteen years Oliver had watched it degrade. It used to give him nightmares. It was always raining in them, storming, and he was always with a big group of people, and they were always pushing against the barn doors desperately trying to keep what was outside from getting in. They never got in, but it was still terrifying. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" Enid asked.

"Smoke weed?"

"No," she said, "do you?"

"No," he answered. "But I have, once, by accident. Why'd you move here?"

It was like a game they'd created. They had to keep the questions going.

"My mom thinks it'll be good for me," Enid said. "Why did you?"

"I didn't. My dad lives here. I visit sometimes." His question: " _Is_ it good for you here?"

"That's what I tell my mom," Enid shrugged. "So your parents split then?"

Oliver nodded, "Is there something wrong with you?"

She frowned, "What's it to you?"

"No... nothing. Sorry." She waited because he hadn't asked his question yet. "Oh. Um..." He tried to think of something to break the tension. "How can you wear that thing?"

She lifted her arms to look at her cardigan. "Don't you like it?"

"No it's not that," he said quickly. "I mean because it's hot," and she smirked, and so he said even more quickly, "the _temperature!_ Jesus."

"I'm cold blooded," she said factually. "Like a lizard. And if it's so hot why're you wearing a beanie?"

"Personal comfort," he said truthfully. "But I'd die if I were wearing anything more than a T-shirt."

"If you're trying to see me naked again, it's not working." Apparently, their game had ended.

"No! I-I was just... oh whatever."

There was an awkward pause.

"Ghostbusters is lame," she mumbled under her breath.

Oliver's mouth fell open. "Ghostbusters is awesome!"

She laughed, tightened her pony tail as she looked both ways and crossed the road. There were no side walks, so jaywalking was kind of impossible not to commit. It didn't really matter though. There were hardly ever cars going along given it being so far off the grid, and there were wide grassy verges to walk on if you wanted to. Oliver walked with her down the long driveway to the rural-looking set of buildings at the end of it. Amongst them was the local grocery store.

Enid bought chocolate mostly, and some bread, a box of cereal, some canned stuff, some ranch sauce, and a frozen yoghurt, putting up with Oliver's puns as they went, like, "I _donut_ freaking _carrot_ all for these prices," and, "You _butter_ take a look at this," and "Do you watch Breaking _Bread_?" and Enid actually laughed when the Broods came on in the store radio and he picked up a jar of jelly and said, "This is my _jam._ " When they left, she gave Oliver the two bags while she took out the frozen yoghurt, and when she took them back again she handed him the cold snack. He held it for a moment, thinking she'd take it back once she'd gotten the brown bags more comfortable in her grip, but she didn't.

"Uh. Enid?"

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you gonna take it?"

"No," she said simply. "I got it for you, as a thank you." Then she shrugged. "Do you like raspberry?"

He wasn't about to pass it up, so he thanked her and started eating, heading back, after a while, he asked, "If you knew I was there last night, why did you wait for so long to close the curtain?"

Enid looked at him as they walked, shrugged. Oliver was becoming aware that Enid was fond of shrugging. "Are we still playing?" she asked quietly.

Oliver shrugged, too, but not quite as _Enidly._ "I don't know," he said. " _Are_ we?"

She smiled. "Guess so. That okay?"

"Yes," he said. "So will you answer me?"

She hopped to get the brown bags higher on either hip. "Okay, so, since the start of human history around a hundred and seven billion people've been born, right?" she said, and Oliver nodded. He actually didn't know this exactly, but it hardly mattered. "Well, don't you think it's sad that none of us is ever gonna survive?"

"Wait, is that you answer?"

"I'm getting there," she said. "So, we're gonna die in the end. There's nothing anyone can or has ever done to avoid this... So, I guess that I've just decided that I have better things to do with my time rather than worry about who's looking at me naked. Understand?"

"No," Oliver said, kind of awestruck and confused. "You're crazy."

"That's not a question, is it?"

"No," he said, running out of creativity. "Um. Can you think of another one?"

She smiled. "I see what you did there. And yes. I can... Do you think I'm fat?"

Oliver frowned, took another scoop of his yoghurt. "No," he said through his mouthful. He wasn't used to girls like Enid. Girls at all, really. Or boys for that matter. He took another scoop.

"You gotta ask one now," she reminded quietly.

"Oh, uh." He didn't know if he should ask, but he did. "Do _you_ think you're fat?"

"Mostly," she said, and Oliver had finished his yoghurt. Enid took the container and put it in a brown bag. "Tell me a secret?"

"Will you tell me one?"

She nodded, "Yes, shall I go first or you?"

"You," he said, "if that's alright?"

She looked away, taking a small breath. "I haven't eaten anything in almost three days. Now what's yours?"

"Wait, Eni–"

"Hey," she said, and shushed him. "No. That's not how this works."

"How what works?"

She motioned to them both one at a time. _Us?_ Oliver thought. "Now, what's your secret?"

Oliver had never met anyone like Enid before. She was like an imaginary friend. A part of him wondered if maybe she was, and so, he said. . .

"I'm in love with my best friend."

He felt like he'd thrown up, all of a sudden, and he was so thrown off by it that he couldn't come up with a question without _really_ spilling the yoghurt. They were at Still Avenue now, and Oliver followed her to her porch. A woman was there, tending to the flowers. Oliver recognised them as Lisianthus. Enid had her mother's smooth, dark hair and more tall-soft nose. He figured she got her roundish-almond eyes from her father, because her mother's were thinner. She seemed not to even notice Oliver. _Maybe it's me,_ he wondered. _Maybe I'm the imaginary friend._

"How was the store?" he heard Enid's mother ask.

"Fine," Enid said, and put up with her mom stroking her hand across her shoulder. "What've you had today?"

Enid rolled her eyes and showed her mother the empty frozen yoghurt container, smiling irritably, and her mother scoffed at the surliness, but was smiling. Oliver probably should have said something, but like usual, he kept his mouth shut.

"Who do we have here?" the lady asked, and Oliver didn't mean to feel relieved that he wasn't actually a figment of Enid's imagination.

"Mom, this is Oliver, he's from next door, visiting his dad. Oliver, this's my mom. Elena. She's an insufferable hopeless wreck, but I'm stuck with her, and, you know, I kind of love her, so."

Oliver didn't know if he should laugh, even though Elena was grinning. "I'll leave you two to it. Oh. Sweetie. Is Ron coming over this weekend or next?"

"Next," Enid said.

"Alright. Oh, Oliver. Thank you for taking Enid to the store. I don't like her being out in this heat w–"

"Mom."

Elena sighed, waved with the dish towel she had in her hand, then turned and went back into the house. Enid was inside, too, and she let the screen door snap back between her and Oliver. Her eyes narrowed, and Oliver wasn't sure if he should leave yet. "Why'd you lie about the frozen yoghurt?" he asked instead.

Enid shrugged. "It's kinder to her, don't you think?"

"Isn't it kinder to yourself to eat."

Enid frowned, "So, your friend," she said then, changing subject. "Do they love you back?"

Pronouns.

Oliver had never really thought about how useful and unnecessary all at the same time they were. Not until that moment. She hadn't specified _their_ gender, and at first Oliver thought he would need to, but then, he realised, he didn't. It didn't matter. His heart was hammering, relieved and terrified and amazed. "I don't know," he said.

"Have you asked them?"

"They beat me up."

"Well that's definitely a good sign."

Oliver sighed. "I deserved it. They hate me now."

Enid watched him, "You know that for sure?"

". . . No."

"So, you can still find out."

"I guess," Oliver said, squinting, and Enid shrugged _Enidly,_ her face broken up between the screen like white noise _. . ._

"Then what've you got to lose?"

* * *

 **Notes**

NEXT CHAPTER. NeXt chaPTEr. It's all GoNNA ChangE.

What did you all make of Enid in this? I've changed up her character a little, though, as you might be able to tell, she's still got the whole _existential crisis_ thing going for her x)

As always,  
Happy reading xx : _)_


	14. Part 2: Change

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Thank you! And no, Nell and Enid don't know each other in this. Maybe soon :) Haha He is cool, huh?

 **Biter Two** Augh, thank you so much. Please make an account on here? I really miss talking to you so much! And yes, unfortunately I do have some experience with a few things I write in this, but that's kinda why I love writing it. Oliver and Carl are so freaking different to anything in real life but I still find ways to relate to them, and writing their struggles kind of help, too, sometimes, like with Oliver's depression especially. I think it helps so much, and it helps even more to know that you get that out of it! So thank you! I hope you're doing good where you are. I'm kinda betting that it's freaking _cold_ by now...

 **DarthGanola** Thanks xxx I love writing Enid. In anything. She's just an interesting character, like the way she thinks and sees how the world works. I both relate and want to just hug her and tell her everything will be okay one day. She's so broken.

 **CodeName A.N.D.Y** Hahaha omg I love writing them. I just sit there like an idiot grinning my head off, thinking, "Is that too much? Is that not enough much? Is it even funny? When I wrote it I thought it was funny...? No, it's not funny." *takes it out, sleeps on it, wakes up at 3:00Am with blood shot eyes and twitchy fingers* "No, it was funny. I'm keeping it." = this was how the _I wonder what it would be like to suck Daryl's dick sometimes_ conversation happened... I regret nothing and everything... xD Thank you, I'm so trying with this. I'm hoping to just do some major re-editing and then just end up seeing if I can publish it as an original. Make the characters a little different, you know? I dunno. I just wanna keep loving it like I love it now and see what happens. OMFG ZOMBIE FOETUS! I HAVE CONTEMPLATED THIS TOO MANY TIMES I FEEL EVIL. Holy fuck, no. No Carl-centric spin off... I-I... I don't think... No. Nope. I refuse. No more Caliver shit. I can't handle it! I'm too excited about Carl's art final, too! OMFG!

 **Wyatt** Yo _your review_ too good. Your review slayed _me._ Your review simultaneously killed _me_ and resurrected _me! Your_ support lit! Love you! Thank you! xxxx

* * *

 **"Memo" by Years & Years**

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **PeanutButterandStrawberryJelly  
**_ **Date: June 2** **nd** **2015  
Time: 16:11pm  
Subject: (no subject)**

Hey, we haven't seen you around school this week, and you weren't in Home Ec today.

* * *

 **Time: 18:44pm**

Just make sure you are next week. It's the final. Roasted pecans.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **MDDeLuca_Psychiatrist  
**_ **Date: June 3** **rd** **2015  
Time: ****07** **:40** **a** **m  
Subject: (no subject)**

Hey, you said that you were in North Carolina for a little while now, right? Can I come to the cabin again this weekend? I have money to pay for the coach journey. I got it all planned, I just need your say so. But, you know, it's okay if you can't.

* * *

 **From:** _ **MDDeLuca_Psychiatrist  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June 3rd** **2015  
Time: 09:02am  
Subject: (no subject)**

Yeah. Sounds good. I'll see you on the weekend.

* * *

 **From:** _ **DuaneJones  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **12** **th** **2015  
Time: 12:03pm  
Subject: (no subject)**

Hey, man. It's been a while, wanna go see that new movie tonight? Mom doesn't like aliens so Dad and I have a spare ticket.

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June 14** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 14:30pm  
** **Subject: Judith**

Judy has her doctor appointment tomorrow and I need to pick up more water colours (yes, I ran out again). Shall I drive to you or will Shane pick us up?

* * *

 **Time: 14:31pm**

Wrong email. Supposed to be for my mom.

* * *

"Shit."

"What?" Enid mumbled.

"Nothing."

She frowned when she looked up from her pet tortoise. His name was Pickle, and if you scratched his chin he would stretch his whole head and neck out from his shell. They were in her bedroom, and in the right corner was a home made terrarium for him. Oliver wasn't really sure why, but last night he'd had a nightmare about Enid trying to eat the poor creature, drawing letters with his bones after she'd picked the flesh clean of them.

Oliver grimaced at himself.

"How'd your last exam go?"

"Fine," Oliver answered, pocketing his cell and ignoring the rush of devastation. He thought Carl was back to expecting Oliver to hang out with him, pull him from his mind-lists to go eat Taco Bell, drawing napkin portraits, and he was going to write a sarcastic, _You know, you're not really asking me again_ reply back, but, well... wrong email, so. _Ouch._ _Fucking_ _ouch._ "When it finished I walked right out of school."

"Rebellious," Enid teased, stepping out of the terrarium.

Oliver smirked –well, _almost._ He turned and listening to the rain outside, feeling the chill of the glass window against his temple. Oliver had been going to the cabin every weekend for four weeks now. Em, too, as of two weeks ago at Oliver's promise to keep him safe. Now that school was over, Oliver had been able to move his shifts at the Florist to weekdays. He spent his time either at the cabin on weekends or working at the Florist and babysitting Mika and Lizzie on weekdays so that he could afford to keep going to the cabin. His father paid for the coach most of the time –after Oliver swallowed his pride and asked, but whenever he didn't it was at least eighty dollars to get a round trip. His mom called him mad for going so often for so little time, but Oliver needed to go to the cabin. Even when Oliver was in King County, he was still at the cabin. He almost considered it home. Not because he was with his father or because Em was there or any of that, but because he could just _be_ there. He wasn't expected to do anything and there was no pressure to be anything he didn't want to be.

"You're on a gap year, right?" he asked her.

"That's one way of saying it," she said. Oliver frowned. She was sat on her bed, back to the wall, pillow on her stomach. Enid often didn't sit down unless something was covering her stomach. Oliver knew why. It wasn't necessary, but he understood. "I call it trying not to lose my mind."

Oliver knew about Enid's... illness? Sickness? Mental disorder? Dilemma... yeah. Dilemmas don't define a person. And Enid's dilemma didn't define her, it was just something she needed help with. Like she was a pair of eyes that just needed a good pair of glasses to see properly. Oliver had knocked on her door a few hours ago when her mother called him to come inside. He was taking out the trash, and so he finished that and went over. He went up to Enid's room, heard her in her en-suit bathroom. He heard the tap running, though behind that, he could hear what she was really doing. Bulimia sucks. When he called her name she took a few minutes to come out again, smiling and greeting Em and pretending nothing had happened.

They were both good at that.  
So that's exactly what they did.

It was just how it worked in North Carolina. You pretended nothing was wrong in the hope that whatever was might go away one day. Even Enid's boyfriend, Ron Anderson, who Oliver had met last week, did the same thing. He was cool; tall and handsome and friendly and the kind of guy who talked with his hands a lot, with floppy light brown hair and pale skin. But Oliver had seen the bruises, the way he flinched if someone raised an arm at him to gesture to something across the room, the wash of anxiety that crossed his expression whenever his father was mentioned, how much he worried for his mother and little brother, and all of the help the doctors and marriage counsellors and anger management was doing to help them. But again, they smiled and laughed and didn't talk about it. The didn't hide it though. Enid took her pills in front of them, Ron took off his sweaters, and Oliver swam without a shirt on. Also, on one occasion when Oliver didn't say no to letting Enid paint his nails a brighter purple than he'd ever seen, Ron had make a joke –it's probably easy to guess which kind– and when Oliver went quiet they both sort of just understood, and Ron took the joke back and apologised, and that was kind of the end of it.

But it didn't matter to them. It didn't seem to even count. This place seemed to have that effect on you. The cabin stopped time. It let you ignore your problems and step off the grid for a while. But it also made coming back harder. Every time Oliver would dread it even more.

"Was it hard?" Enid asked, and tossed Pickle a slice of cucumber. "Leaving school."

Oliver smiled then. "Enid, it was the easiest thing I've ever done in my life."

"Do you have a plan, now that you're free?"

 _Free,_ he thought, procrastinating. _What defines freedom anyway?_

Enid gasped at his silence. "Oh my God. Oliver doesn't have a plan? Blow your brains out and hide your family underground because Oliver doesn't have a plan!" She threw her arms up. "The world's ending. We're doomed. Oliver doesn't have a plan."

"Hush," Oliver grumbled, and Enid laughed. "I mean... I-I'm waiting for my exam results to come back." When graduation day actually came along in two weeks, if he graduated, he probably wasn't going to go anyway. "I'll see what colleges accept me and choose which one I'll go to in September. And I'll never have to think about King County again."

"Music or Law?"

Oliver had told her about the Oberlin Conservatory of Music. It sort of just came out. A lot of things just sort of _came out_ around Enid. Enid didn't really have a vocal filter, and if you asked her a question she would tell you the answer blunt and simple even if it wasn't what you wanted to hear. It sometimes rubbed off on Oliver, and when it did, that's when the _coming out_ part would happen.

"I'm not sure yet," he said.

"What do you _want_?" she asked. Oliver shrugged. "Liar."

"Fine!" he groaned, and the little boy who was curled up on the carpet sleeping like a dog startled. "Sorry, Em. Go back to sleep."

Em glared for a moment before pulling the blanket Enid had set down for him closer. He'd spent the whole day in the lake with Oliver, and earlier he'd made quite a valiant attempt at riding Pickle across the room, but obviously not enough chin tickling was involved because the creature didn't move an inch, and so, right now, Em was more exhausted than Oliver had ever seen him.

Enid was smirking, and when Oliver glared at her for it she shrugged. "You wanna do music, right?"

"Want and should are two different things that require the utmost attention," he answered.

"Oh, screw that. What'd you rather? Wake up every day to a job you hate, dealing with people you hate, on cases you hate, _or..._ waking up to the sound you love, and sure, you might not have as much money, but you'll look forward to working on something you enjoy. You'd be happy."

Occasionally one of them would attempt to talk about the things they were spending so much time avoiding, like now, but Oliver wasn't up to it yet: "I don't know, Enid."

"I'd rather be happy," she said, meant it, meant it so much her eyes seemed to water. But she pushed it away: "I mean, what've you got to lose?"

"You always say that."

"It never makes a difference."

There was a pause, and Oliver closed his eyes. His panic attacks had been happening more often since what happened in the boy's bathroom. He could go a week without them, but then he'd have spells of panic attacks occurring several times every day. They seemed to be wearing off a little this weekend though, because Oliver could breathe and think clearer than usual, and so he focussed on the cold against his temple, the noise of the rain outside, and he thought of Em riding the tortoise and it made him want to laugh.

"I have no idea what I'm doing here," Enid said after a while.

Oliver looked at her across the bedroom, smiling, "At least you can admit it."

"Doesn't make it easier."

It was ridiculous really, how lost they both were. Like two misfits riding through their existential crisis together. But Oliver loved Enid for this. It was comforting to know he wasn't alone in it.

"It's noon," she said. "You should probably head back." Oliver was going home today –it being Sunday. His and Em's bus would be leaving at half past twelve. "You coming back next weekend?"

"Yup," Oliver nodded, slipping off of the sill.

"Tell your dad this time," Enid reminded as Oliver scooped Em from the floor, grunting.

"He didn't even notice we'd gone last week anyway."

"Well, still."

In truth, Oliver had hardly spoke to his father while being at the cabin. They'd have breakfast together sometimes, and Oliver would thank him if he made supper, and if Em was persistent enough their father would play with him for a little while, but he'd get distracted again and go back to his desk. He'd made one attempt to talk to Oliver about the self harm, and Oliver sat through it answering and saying the things he was supposed to, and when he said he thought he was getting better and thanked his dad for helping, his father smiled like he was proud –of himself, and Oliver reminded him that he needed to plan his next trip, and so that seemed to be the end of it. Oliver hadn't even told his dad about Enid. She and Ron were like his secret. Like they all could _really_ just as easily have been in his head. He needed them though, Enid especially. She was his anchor. She made his numbness a little more bearable. Like Penelope, only she could actually be there in person.

"Bye," he said, and Em waved drowsily to Pickle, mumbling that he loved him –according to the little boy once you sit on something that isn't an inanimate object it automatically becomes your best friend. Oliver turned to Enid, pressed his lips into a smile. "Stay cool, Enid."

"You, too." She got up and slipped a folded piece of paper into his sweater breast pocket, and it wasn't until Oliver and Em had gotten home later that night that he remembered it and took it out again. He tacked it onto his bedroom wall, and it read:

 _just survive somehow_

* * *

It was over two weeks later, and they had all stopped trying to email him now. Oliver was both relieved and sad. He didn't go to graduation, despite graduating with A's and B's, bar Home Ec, which he flunked miserably, and not only because he hardly showed up either. On the final, he'd set fire to the baking tray. Mrs. Peletier had to throw a wet towel over it and fan the fire alarms. Anyway, he kept going to the cabin on weekends, sometimes using Rosa's car if she didn't need it. He kept close with Enid and Ron and Penelope, and after a while they all stopped trying to convince him to talk to his friends in King County – stopped talking to him about King County at all, actually. The thought of it made Oliver feel like he would yack, so he did what he did best: avoided it. He convinced himself he was happy like it. And just like he thought, after long enough, nobody could tell the difference.

This was why he protected himself. This was why he isolated himself. Braced for impact. Created as much distance as he could so that it didn't hurt when people realised who and what he really was.

Trouble is. . .  
It still hurt like hell.

Then, one morning while Oliver was buying groceries from the local King-Mart for his mom, it hurt so bad he wasn't sure he could come back from it.

He was on the way back to his mom's car, clicked the keys, heard the _bloop!_ across the street, saw the orange lights flash. It was the day before Independence Day and there were patriotic flags hung just about everywhere; on the side of buildings, sticking out of cars, strung up along the street-lights. Oliver was busy looking up at them –Oliver liked the colour red so much that anything involving it usually caught his eye, and so he didn't notice the other teenager on the side walk coming towards him. When he finally did notice he couldn't do anything about it. Because he was there. Right in front of him.

Carl Grimes.  
Carl fucking Grimes.

Oliver tried to cross, but 1. he would have been jaywalking, and 2. there were too many cars to do that without losing at least one limb, which didn't sound appealing at all –Oliver had already had nightmares about losing his own hand before. So he stopped, right there, bags full with celery and tomatoes and nutty bread and OJ and three small patriotic American flags that he'd bought for the hell of it. Carl noticed him, too, and he almost stopped as well. But Carl Grimes had always been better at keeping his cool under pressure, and so he recomposed himself, making his way past, mumbling a casual, "Hi," at the floor.

Oliver's breath shook, and he felt the pang in his throat. It had been building there over all these weeks, and it suddenly exploded, and he turned, instinct forcing him to speak. . .

"Carl."

Carl stopped, sort of stood there for a moment with his back to him, his head dipped. Oliver covered his mouth, like it might take back the name that had left it. But Carl turned, and they stared at each other, and Oliver's breath became fast and short, felt the colour drain from his face.

"It's alright," Oliver said finally, and had to suddenly wipe his cheek when a stream of tears ran down it, the hurt oozing.

Carl's eyes dropped, and when he looked up again he said, very quietly, "What?"

"It's alright," Oliver started over, concentrating. "You can hate me. I. . . I _really_ hate me, too."

Carl stared, and his shoulders came up when someone brushed past him, apologising over their shoulder, but the two didn't stop looking at each other. Oliver saw him about to say something, but he couldn't bear it, he couldn't bear hearing Carl order him to go to hell, to never speak to him again, and so he turned and left before the ache swallowed him whole.

* * *

When Oliver got home he already felt like shit, and so he didn't have any more energy to react when he saw Sophia sat on the step outside his front door.

"Have you been crying?" was the first thing she asked him.

"No," he lied.

She stood up and walked over to him, took the shopping bags from his arms and put them back inside his car, taking his key and locking it for him. Oliver's head was dipped, miserable and drained in a way he couldn't quite explain, but then again, fighting a constant battle in your own mind is exhausting, and so, when she took his hand and led him to her house he didn't do or say anything to refuse.

"My mom's out," Sophia said, shutting her front door after him.

Oliver nodded but wasn't really listening. He was thinking about what he'd said at the store. He was thinking about how ashamed he was of himself. How impossibly little control he had to feel any differently. It made him ache, but, _really, really_ ache. Like something inside him was ringing him out on himself. It hurt so bad that he was totally numb to it. A horrible numb that all he wanted to do was make a little more bearable, in his own quiet, in his own bedroom, in his own thoughts, like always. . .

"You know you graduated on Monday, right?"

"Yeah," he said, "they're sending it in the post."

"The guys were pretty downed when you didn't show. Even Ellie asked where you were." He didn't say anything. Sophia went over to Beau's bird cage and tapped her finger against the metal. Beau reached forward, stuck her little pink tongue out and dabbed the dry skin against Sophia's fingertip. Sophia smiled. "My girl."

Oliver's phone _ding!_ ed. It was an email from his father:

* * *

 **From:** _ **MDDeLuca_Psychiatrist  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: July 3** **rd** **2015  
** **Time: 8:01am  
** **Subject: Cabin**

I'll be a little late getting home tonight. Don't wait up. I'll leave you the number to order take-out. You and Em get whatever you want on my card. See you, buddy.

* * *

"So I got this really long text from Carl a few minutes ago," Sophia said. Oliver pocketed his cell, but didn't say anything, so Sophia pinched his sweater sleeve and pulled him over to the couch, and he sat on his hands and chewed the top layer of skin on his lip. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"He said you do that a lot," she mumbled, and he looked up to her, confused, so she elaborated: "Carl. He said you say stuff like that a lot. That you're fine when you're not."

Oliver looked out the window, biting at a hangnail. He saw Sophia smile, but she was kind enough to settle it before talking again. "I didn't realise he knew more about you than I did. I... I didn't know that I hardly really knew anything about you at all."

He looked at her then, and he wanted to apologise so badly his mouth was dry. But he kept quiet.

"He told me you both went to camp together," she explained quietly, and for the strangest moment she looked so much like her mother that Oliver almost double took. "Fought all your _monsters_ together." There was a pause, and Oliver didn't say anything. "Don't say everything's fine," she suggested. "Tell me the not fine?"

Oliver had to suddenly wipe his eyes, shaking his head. "I can't," he said, and had to scrunch his eyes, bawling his hands into them. But then Sophia took them; his hands, pulling them away from his face. He looked at her, heaving his breath, suddenly unable to push how much he was hurting down anymore.

"What do you think of yourself?" she asked then, curious. "How do you see yourself?"

"Erm."

She smiled, "My therapist used to ask me that all the time."

"You had a shrink?"

"Don't change the subject."

He frowned, thought. "I don't know."

"Yes you do."

So, taking a breath, he told the truth: "I'm an ass hole." He thought he'd stop there. But all he wanted to do was spill everything, and so he did. "I hurt people, and I can't help it. Like with you. I led you on like a total shit-shark." She laughed at that, but Oliver didn't find it all that funny. Neither did she really. "I'm... _messed up._ "

Sophia's expression suddenly shifted. Hardened like ice. "Don't say that," she said. "Don't." Oliver stared at her, his eye lashes clumping, chest aching. "There's a lot of messed up things. But this? This is _not_ one of them, Oliver. This is just two boys too stupid to realise how..." She pushed him, palmed herself in the forehead and laughed. Oliver was going to ask if she was okay but she kept talking before he could. "How _freaking_ perfect you are for each other. This is... This is _awesome._ And... you're just _ignoring_ it!" She was getting mad now. Oliver had his hands up, like when a kitten starts hissing at you. _Maybe Sophia_ is _a cat?_ he thought. She kept talking: "So no, this is not _messed up,_ Oliver. Messed up is drowning puppies. Messed up is people eating people. Messed up is thinking you're a monster when you're not. Messed up is a family that stay together outa habit over love... Messed up is a dad who abuses his wife and daughter..."

 _Oh, shit._

"Messed up is when I still love him and still miss him..." She pushed him again, softer this time, but it still shook Oliver to the core. " _J_ _ust_ because he's my dad and there's _nothing_ I can do about it." Tears were welling in her eyes, and her cheeks were pale and blotchy, and she had to swallow before continuing. . . "You are _not_ messed up."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah," she said, and wiped her eyes, looking small and faded against all the colour in her house. But when she looked up at him again, she smiled, and colour burst from her. "Me, too."

Oliver understood now. He understood why she kept the photo of that man crumpled under a paper weight. He understood why she smiled like it hurt whenever her father came up in conversation. Why Carol was so quiet but so strong all at once. Why they both smiled with a warm smile that stretched across their lips but not their eyes. He understood. But didn't. Because there was no way he could ever understand how she felt.

"I'm not sure how common it is to find someone who genuinely cares about you," Sophia said, "who genuinely _loves_ you, but I don't think it happens all that often. So when it does you shouldn't avoid it just because it's not exactly how you thought it would be. You can't ignore it because you're afraid. Or because you don't want to hurt anybody. Sometimes, you gotta get off your butt, and take your shot."

Then he was hugging her, and she buried her face into his neck, sighing and hugging him back. Oliver suddenly realised it had been weeks since he'd felt someone like this before. He hadn't thought about it; the importance and comfort of simple human touch. He hadn't even been holding Em's hand lately. He hadn't been letting his mom kiss his forehead, or his father pat him on the back, and so he squeezed Sophia, scrunching his eyes for how warm and human she was. When they pulled away she kissed his forehead, smiling at him, and Oliver wiped his eyes, wiping hers, too.

"Thank you, Sophia."

She nodded.

"So," he said, sniffing, wiping his face again, "how was graduation?"

"Good," she said. "I got Mostly A's. Few B's. Duane got straight A's."

"Brain box," Oliver said, and they both knew it was a compliment. "How'd Carl do?"

"Better than he thought," Sophia said. "He only flunked one subject, Religious Studies. But everything else was mostly B's. A few C's and A's. He did best in Art though."

"Good," Oliver smiled, meant it. "How'd your Photography final go?"

"Here..." She stood up and went through the archway into the dining room, retrieved a large folder from the table, then brought it over, setting it on his lap as she sat opposite him again on the couch. "Take a look."

He did, read: _Colourful Perfect Imperfection_ as the title. He flipped through pages of the project, and with each page another memory was recollected of Judith's birthday while they were all on the front lawn with the coloured powder. One photo of Oliver and Duane stood opposite, their mouths in small _o_ shapes, close ups of the powder on their skin and in their hair. One photo of Oliver in the very moment of laughter, the lines on his face long and dark in a way he'd never seen with his own eyes before. Another of Duane shaking the emerald clouds away from his face, his expression contorted and stretched by momentum. More photos of pink atomic bombs exploding between Carl's palms, his blurry, unfocussed face grimacing behind it. Juts of blue and yellow falling through the air. Stuck under fingernails and embedded into fabric. There was one photo of the top of Carl's head, his blue eyes shining, looking up towards his glowing violet fringe. Another photo of the left half of Oliver's face, which was a swirl of pink and orange and blue, all pulled to one side like he'd smelt something bad. More photos of the three of them pulling their faces and sticking their tongues out. Stood up-side down. Blood rushing to their faces. Glowing with colour so brightly they looked more photo-shopped than they really were, and the photos were awesome.

Then there was one last photo of him and Carl sprawled across the grass together in their _V_ shape, the pointy part being their heads with a few centimetres gap –which, now Oliver was seeing it, he only just realised was actually only a few millimetres– between touching. _Unnecessary eye contact. It's great. It's interesting. It can make you feel in love, did you know that?_ Neither boy were smiling in the photo, they were just looking. _Looking_ and _looking_ and _looking_ , and Sophia had caught the very moment of it. Under that photo was a large, scribbled, red, _A._

Oliver looked at her, "A for _awesome._ "

She laughed, "Thanks."

Oliver closed the folder, handed it back.

"You know, Carl actually used one of my photos as a reference in his art final."

"Which one?"

Sophia shrugged, "I don't know. He didn't show me. He didn't show anybody."

Oliver nodded, distracted.

"Go, Oliver..."

He looked up to her, almost startling. "What?"

She smiled, gestured to the door. . . "Take your shot."

* * *

When he got home Em, their mom and the car were gone, so Oliver got to packing his and Em's things for their father's, grabbing a few snacks for them to eat on the seven hour drive. But he noticed the post-it note on the fridge:

 _Thanks for bringing in the groceries..._

Oliver had gotten his sarcasm from his mother.

 _Anyway, Emilio and I are at the park. We'll be home before you have to go to your dad's. Make sure you're packed.  
Ps. Thanks for the groceries x  
Love, Mom._

It was 8:12AM. He had to leave with Em at 9:00AM. Less than an hour. Oliver had never thought about how motivating time could be, or rather, how motivating _a lack of it_ could be. He had forty-eight minutes until he had to leave. Forty-eight minutes to take a shot. Oliver stuck the post-it to his forehead and took out his phone. . .

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: July 3** **rd** **2015  
** **Time: 08:13pm  
** **Subject: Please read this!**

Remember the 'wrong hands' list? Our first list?  
I have one more:

– Hands that hold on too much

Ps. But I'm not sorry for it.

* * *

 _Shit.  
_ _Shit.  
_ _Shit._

* * *

 **From:** _ **cjgrimes121314**_

 **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: July 3** **rd** **2015  
Time: 08:16pm  
Subject: H** **i.**

I have one more, too.

– Hands that don't hold on enough

Ps. You don't need to be.

* * *

And then Oliver got this feeling. Know the one? When all of a sudden a ball of energy builds in your spine? It'll shoot down your legs and up into your arms, punch you right in your gut. It'll tell you to get up and finish that final. It'll tell you to take a long walk in the sun and trees and earth. Well, Oliver got that feeling, and so he put his phone in his pocket and ran out of his house. He almost sprinted right into his mother once he pulled the door shut behind him, apologising, suddenly scooping Em from the floor.

"Oliver?"

"We gotta go across town," he yelled over his shoulder. "We'll be back in a little while."

"Oliver, you've got the..."

He didn't hear anymore than that because he'd gotten Em into his car-seat, buckled him up and climbed through the car rather than going around. Oliver didn't speed, by the way. He'd never put his brother's life in danger like that. In fact, he wasn't really sure why he needed Em there in the first place. He just did. Brotherly support –no matter how useless it might have been. His mind was clear and sharp and terrified all at once. He wasn't sure how long it took to get to Carl's house, just that it wasn't long before he did. It wasn't long before he'd parked on the curb and was rocketing up the steps that cut through the middle of his front yard, drag-carrying Em along with him. It wasn't long before he was wrapping his fist against the door, shouting through the letter box, Em mimicking him because it looked like fun. It wasn't long before the door opened, and there, in front of them, was Carl Grimes.

Oliver was doubled over, panting madly, clutching his knees. He saw Judith behind her brother clutching his khaki pant leg. Her hair had been braided to one side with a pale blue clip holding back a part of her fringe that Oliver knew either Carl or Rick had done for her due to a few loose straggles. Em waved at her, and she waved back shyly. Carl remained silent. Oliver could tell that he'd been drawing. His fringe was bunched up wildly, a few dark ink smudges on his forehead and on the balls of his palms when he rested one on the door frame, and the tell-tale ball-point pen was sticking out from its home behind his ear. Oliver expected him to shut the door, but moments passed and he was still stood there, waiting. It made Oliver want to smile; relieved, but he was focussing on breathing. He had one finger raised, like, _Wait a sec... hang on... I'll totally say something in a moment... oh, God... I'm just dying, so... just give me a second to quit that..._ Finally though, Oliver collected himself, stood properly.

"You should probably take your Ventolin." Oliver shook his head, breathless but meaning it. Carl took a breath, turned, headed inside. "Come upstairs," he said quietly, not looking at him, then turned to the kids. "We'll be right back. Go watch cartoons."

Oliver closed the front door behind him, saw Em and Judy scurry off into the living room together –it seemed that Em had gotten over his fear of cooties. He caught the heel of the boy's socked foot before it was gone on the second floor landing. Oliver's heart was pounding, but he followed him up to his bedroom, staying quiet and patient, anticipating what it was that Carl needed to tell him. What it was that he himself needed to tell Carl, and in the end the two boys sort of just stood in the bedroom not saying anything at all.

Carl's bedroom was kind of anti-climactic, compared to what Oliver had imagined –because yes, he had imagined it, and double yes, Oliver had never been inside the room before. He expected artistic designs and beautiful abstract colours and breathtaking drawings to be littered over every centimetre. But it was outrageously stereotypical. There was the bed, desk, dresser, mirror. The walls were painted blue. A small flat screen TV was mounted on the wall with video-games stacked neatly-messily on the dresser under it. A comic book collection was stowed in a clear box container at the bottom of the open wardrobe, tucked away. On one shelf next to the door was a small collection of soccer trophies and medals. There was probably only two things that were of any note. The first was a brown Stetson hat with a police badge on the front –his father's, Oliver guessed, propped on the back of the door, collecting dust, and the second thing was on the wall beside the TV. It was a poster of Mila Kunis. She was wearing a lacy black bra and denim short-shorts undone at the front, one hand draped over the back of her head scrunching up a part of her dark glossy hair, and the other was spread over her stomach, middle finger touching the edge of her underwear. It wasn't really all that odd, Oliver just kind of double took at it, because, well... hormones and all, but he quickly turned his head and focussed back on Carl, who was stood in front of his bed, shoulders hunched a little, hands in his jeans pockets.

Facing the boy, now, Oliver felt so mortally human. Mortally teenage boyish. . . Mortally _Oliver._

"Hi." Pause. At Oliver's silence, Carl crossed his arms, looking him up and down with those narrowed eyes of his. "You know you've got a post-it note stuck to your face, right?"

With a grunt, Oliver ripped it off, rubbing his forehead from the glue that had mixed with his sweat.

"Why're you here, Oliver?" Carl sounded tired, like he'd been awake all night. He reached over to a large cardboard box that was on his bed and Oliver caught a glimpse of the drawings and pencils and similar such art objects scattered across the desk and bed before Carl slipped them all inside the box and pushed it under his bed.

Hiding his colour away.  
Hiding his personality away.

Oliver swallowed. A part of him told him he should just leave, go back to 17 Grove Street, spare them both the mess this had all become, wait until college started. He could forget all about Carl and King County and everything he'd missed out on involving either one of them. But another part –a stronger part– it told him to stay. It told him to talk. It told him to take his shot. . .

"You know when people speak to you," was how he started, all sweaty and jittery and only slightly not terrified. "A-and you gotta speak back? You're supposed to say stuff like, _How are you?_ Or, _Did you watch that episode last night?_ "

"Erm. I guess?"

Oliver nodded. _This is going okay,_ he told himself. Then remembered that it wasn't over yet. _Fuck._ "Right. _Shit._ Well –I don't know– whenever I say stuff like that I don't wanna say stuff like that." He was talking with his hands. Oliver never talked with his hands. Enid's boyfriend, Ron, talked with his hands a lot. Oliver really spent too much time up there. _Oh fuck. Ohhh fuck._ "They're like social safe-words to make sure you're not told you're a freak or a weirdo but... But I wanna say stuff like, _What's that one thing that's never not made you laugh?_ Or, _What do you miss about your childhood?_ Or –I don't know– _What do you think the purpose of condensation is?_ " He threw his hands up, and Carl watched them, cocking an eyebrow. Oliver couldn't tell if it was because he was impressed or confused, but Oliver knew, at least, that he was listening. "What if it's not just me?" he went on, panicking and passionate all at once. "W-what if everyone is just –I don't know– _aching_ to ask the same-different things? Why don't people take a shot, you know? Why does it take friends who're hurting with their own problems to tell you to? I. . . I wanna..." He ran out of breath and had to regain it again, gulping. "I wanna trust myself. And I wanna trust other people. And I wanna do something because I _want_ to. N-not because I _should_ or because I'm _supposed_ to."

Carl was still sort of just staring at him, his mouth stuttering, eyes welling.

Oliver was terrified.  
Absolutely terrified.

"W-well say something, man?"

". . . Jenny died."

Okay, so it wasn't _exactly_ what Oliver had in mind. But it didn't make it any less important. He felt his brow rise, then arch, sympathetic and shocked. Overwhelmed with _feeling,_ all of a sudden. He didn't even recognise it. It made him fidget. Made him hop on one foot. He felt like Em when he'd had that confusing day with the empty box; mad at the whole world because he couldn't be something he didn't even want to be in the first place. So Oliver hugged the teenager, suddenly. It took Carl a moment, (mostly because he wasn't expecting such a reply) but once he'd finished startling he let out a long breath into his shoulder, and then he brought his hands up, hugged Oliver back.

"When?" Oliver asked, muffling into flannel.

"Yesterday." Carl's jaw moved against Oliver's neck when he spoke. He brought his legs up to cross them on the bed. Oliver did the same, shuffling closer beside him when Carl started pulling. Oliver wasn't exactly sure when they'd decided to sit on the bed, just that they were now. "At the vet," Carl went on. "Twisted gut. They had to put her down."

"Where's your family?"

"Dad's at work. Grandma's in town getting a perm."

Oliver nodded, hear the fabric of Carl's flannel rub and scuff against his cheek, focussing on it, on _him._ He let his fists bawl into the back of Carl's T-shirt, felt the way Carl's hands did the same into his, and they buried their cheeks into their shoulders, hugged each other tighter, and it was so alienly _warm,_ alienly _welcom_ _e. . ._ alienly _something._

"I don't hate you."

Oliver held his breath. He had to or he'd explode.

"I don't," Carl said. "Not even a little. Like, ever."

Oliver hiccuped. He needed to hold on to him tighter, bury his face closer, reach in and hide away inside his chest. Just for a little while. A little while until it stopped hurting anymore.

"I hate that _you_ hate you," Carl said. "I hate that I hate me the same way. I hate that you hate yourself so much that you don't even believe me. And, I hate that it works like that because that's so screwed up." Carl took a breath, pulled away, looked at him. His hand came up, hesitating, and he only went ahead and brushed a part of Oliver's fringe away from his eyes when Oliver closed them, listening and trying not to cry anymore. "But the parts of you that aren't being a total dick," Carl said, "are actually pretty damned great. And I'm sorry for taking so fucking long to tell you."

"Nice cussing."

Carl laughed, and his chin tipped up, and his hand rested on Oliver's cheek, and he looked scared and overwhelmed but in a way that seemed like he didn't care anymore, like he didn't want to let it beat him. Oliver was kind of crying again by this point. But he got that feeling again. That pang of energy that built in his spine and shot through his fingertips and toes, punched him in the gut. So he looked into Carl's eyes, and Carl looked back, inhaling, anticipating. . .

"Can I kiss you?" Oliver wasn't really sure if he should've ask quiet so bluntly. He figured he was just spending too much time talking to Enid. But that didn't matter, not in that moment, because in that moment Carl was nodding, nodding and nodding and nodding. And in the next moment they were kissing, kissing and kissing and kissing. Their first kisses that didn't hesitate. Didn't fear. Didn't regret. And it was in those collection of moments that Oliver understood everything was going to change.

* * *

 **Notes**

A for Awesome.  
A for Alexandria.  
A for _everything..._

Yes, I gave Enid a pet tortoise. And I called it Pickle after the _green_ _dragon_ Carl and Oliver made up that _guarded_ her _top secret lair_ out in the woods with the _pink lantern_ and the _sexualised door knob –_ if anybody remembers Oliver mentioning all of that in his head during the "Curiosity Killed the Cat" chapter, I praise you. Haha. Btw, that stuff was actually inspired after reading lots of Harry Potter fanfic :D

Also, Oliver's speech at the end there was inspired by the brilliant _zefrank1_ on YouTube, his video "Find the others." check it out if you want your perspective to be enlightened at least a little bit.

RIP Jenny :,(

 **Preview: Quite a lot of kissing...**

Tell me what you though, all views are like gold! xxx

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	15. Part 2: Whoa

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** xD love you!

 **purifiedwatergonebad** When will you allow messaging again!? Ughhh! Glad you're not dead x) Thaaaanks! "Hella" ? Have you been playing Life is Strange by any chance?

 **DarthGranola** Yeah, I wish he went, too. But he just wasn't in the right head space. He was just focussing on getting as far away from King County as he could. He's just been using the cabin to do that. Thank you xxx

 **Libby Putney** Ahaha, yeah, it's kinda sloppy and gushy for the purpose of the story, especially in chapter 10 xD MEGA slop in that chapter haha Against your ethics? I'm all ears for constructive criticism, thank you xx :)

 **Wyatt** Haha thank you! YOU'RE SO AWESOME! MAKE AN ACCOUNT AND WE CAN MESSAGE! Pleeeeeeeeeease?

 **ANDY!** I ADORE YOU!

 **the walking shadow** Thank you! You're so awesome! Yes, here you go:

* * *

" **Chocolate" by The 1975**

 _ **Thank you, the walking shadow infinitely!**_

* * *

 **Also, guys, if you wanna listen to the full Stale M &M's track, go to the bottom of my profile. It's a link to the playlist I made on my YouTube account. **

* * *

_**HAPPY THANKS GIVING!**_

* * *

 _1\. GO AT LEAST A STATE AWAY FROM HOME.  
_ _2\. PAINT SOMETHING.  
_ _3\. SAY SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO._ _ **X  
**_ _4\. SAVE A LIFE.  
_ _5\. DO ANYTHING INVOLVING CORN. OR PUDDING.  
_ _6\. PUNCH SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT.  
_ _7\. GET DRUNK._ _ **X  
**_ _8\. STAY UP ALL NIGHT. (ON TUMBLR)  
_ _9\. SEE SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO.  
_ _10\. CAMP IN A TENT._ _ **X  
**_ _11\. SURVIVE SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU.  
_ _12\. TAKE A DRUG.  
_ _13\. JUMP OFF A CLIFF._ _ **X  
**_ _14\. SEE A CONCERT.  
_ _15\. SAY SOMETHING IMPORTANT._ _ **X  
**_ _16\. STEAL SOMETHING._ _ **X  
**_ _17\. HAVE A MOVIE MARATHON.  
_ _18\. GO FISHING. (CATCH AT LEAST ONE FISH)  
_ _19\. GET LOST._ _ **X  
**_ _20\. SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF. (That won't result in substantial injury or death or kidnap.)  
_ _21\. JUMP OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.  
_ _22\. COOK A MEAL.  
_ _23\. Find the best pizza place._ _ **X  
**_ _24\. Keep A PROMISE.  
_ _25\. GET OLIVER OUT OF BED WITHOUT TACO BELL BRIBERY.  
_ _26\. MAKE TACO THURSDAY A THING.  
_ _27\. READ HIS FAVORITE BOOK.  
_ _28\. CUSS._ _ **xxxxxxxx  
**_ _29\. KISS HIM AGAIN._ _ **X**_

* * *

Oliver: When did you add the last one?

Carl: A while ago. I never thought you'd see it. Let alone cross it off.

Oliver: Nice.

Carl: Wanna cross it off a second time?

Oliver: Yes. But unfortunately, we've got things to do.

* * *

Carl needed to pick Whinny up from the hair dressers at 8:50PM. Today was also the day that King County High's three-day-long Art display was ending. Carl was supposed to be there to show and take credit for his final project (which apparently was so good that he'd won an award for it) but he chose not to go in due to Jenny's death. Oliver didn't really know what it felt like to mourn an animal. But once he thought about the fact that Carl had pretty much grown up with the black Labrador for the last fifteen years of his life. . . he got an outlined idea. But he also could see how miserable sitting in his house was making Carl, and how overwhelmed he was feeling after everything that had just happened. To put it bluntly, he needed cheering up.

"We should go to your art display."

"It's not my art display," Carl said. They were in the living room now, the TV on but muted. It was an episode of SpongeBob and Em and Judith were still mesmerised without any noise. "It's _an_ art display."

Oliver smiled, well _for_ the idea of staying here and crossing number twenty-nine off of the list another dozen times, too, but – "You haven't told me what you made yet. From what I hear you haven't told _anyone_ what you made yet." Carl rolled his eyes. Oliver had put the dots together himself and realised that Carl hadn't even told his family that he'd gotten the award for his art final. "Did you sculpt something?" Oliver asked, and Carl shook his head. "Did you paint something?" Nod. "Then did you cross it off our bucket list?"

Carl smiled suddenly, and Oliver smiled, too, watching his lips stretch and stretch. Then Carl took the bucket list and a pen, "Number two," he said, scribbling an _x_ , "paint something. _Check._ "

"Awesome," Oliver whispered, and Judith gave him a dust bunny that she'd just fished out from under the couch. "Judy, you wanna come to _an_ art display?" he asked her, sort of grimacing with the clump of dust and hair and dead skin in his palm. Carl took it, blushing, getting up and throwing it in the trash can with a glare at his little sister. When he came back he gave Oliver the same glare, though in protest rather than reprimand, but he gave up when he realised he was grinning.

"Jesus," he said. " _Fine._ "

They took Carl's car.

* * *

It was 8:32PM when they got to school. Eighteen minutes until Carl needed to pick Whinny up. Twenty-eight minutes until Oliver and Em needed to go to their dad's. _A lack of time_ was still motivating them. They walked down the path towards the main doors into school. Oliver had a strange feeling like he was an escaped prisoner being dragged back into his cell or something, but he pushed it away, and it was easier to do that because Carl was there feeling exactly the same way.

Only one of the four school doors were open, and Carl led the four of them through the main foyer towards the main hall. Unlike Oliver'd expected, school wasn't actually all that empty now that the semester was over. It wasn't _busy,_ but it was definitely active. They could hear people before they saw them. Oliver was holding Em's hand. Carl was holding Judith's. And Judith and Em were almost holding hands –Judith would try, but Em would grimace and yank his hand away, and she'd try again and Em would relent for a second, but then jerk his hand away again, and the process would repeat once or twice every few minutes.

The two teenagers pushed the hall doors open and saw inside. Oliver had seen the hall when it was empty, and it always looked smaller. But it seemed to double in size when it was full of students or lunch tables. And now, being full with art stands, it looked just as big. Individual stands with their own theme or piece were dotted around the room, filling it so that you had to go along in a sort of order, like a grocery store, only filled with paintings and sculptures and proud-looking students and curious-looking visitors. Oliver, Em, Carl and Judith went around the displays. There was a 60's themed booth. A Manga themed booth. Seasons. African wildlife. Pop-culture. Messy. Body parts. Creepy. Still life. Awkward faces. Nature. Cartoons. The further they went the more nervous Carl seemed to become. Oliver would examine every piece, appreciating it for it originality but mostly testing whether he recognised anything –like the way Carl curled ever-so-slightly at the end of every pencil dash of brush stroke, the way he'd merge water colours into themselves almost like an accident, but a beautiful accident, or the way he'd go over ink mistakes with thicker ink marks in such a way it looked intentional. Skin and eyes and lips was what he was best at drawing. Eyelashes, too. If Oliver didn't know any better he'd think Carl spent all day looking at people's facial features. Then again, now that he thought about it, he probably did. Anyway, Oliver checked every name, getting progressively frustrated and anxious that none had read _Carl Grimes_ yet.

But then, Oliver saw it. . .  
Or rather, he saw _himself._

It was a close up portrait. Water-colour. His face was a little more to the left side of the canvas, his eye just off centre, brown and gold and glassy and _alive._ His gravity defying hair flopped wavily brownly all over the place. His lips were parted, thin; like they were, and the shadows that cast across his face were shaded with colour instead of darkness, shades dancing across his skin, swirling out of his eyelashes. He looked curious, staring up at something that wasn't on the canvas. But Oliver knew what it was. _Who_ it was. Because he had seen the photo that Carl had painted this from, he remembered the _click_ that interrupted his and Carl's unnecessary eye contact. Oliver was only reminded of present reality when someone stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

"What do you think?" Carl asked softly, but Oliver couldn't look away from the painting of himself yet, awed, and so, he whispered. . .

"Whoa..."

He heard Carl chuckle, and then his back straightened when he felt their fingers link. Oliver looked at him then, aware of the attention that the gesture had gotten from a student in the booth beside them, but Carl just kept his eyes on his painting, the corners of his lips curved at the edges, and he tilted his head, whispered. . .

"I really like you, too, Oliver."

Oliver was grinning. In that moment he felt like he was going to blow up like a balloon and float away with himself. He thought he'd kiss him, again, right there; roll around in him on the floor like a robin in a bird-bath, but he kind of just looked away and scrunched his eyes shut instead. A woman walked over to them. She had short, black hair that was loosely held back with a feathery green head-band. She smiled with thick dark lips and shiny brown eyes. Oliver let go of Carl's hand, read: _Jaqui Prescott_ on the name tag on her blouse –Carl's Art Teacher, he realised.

"Hello, Carl," she said. "You here to take it away?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ah," she said then, staring at Oliver. He almost stepped back when she reached forward and pressed a palm to each side of his face, examining him, "so _you're_ the muse?" Oliver was blushing, and when he strained his eyes he could see Carl blushing, too. "Forty hours of working on this thing sure as hell paid off, huh, honey?" Mrs. Prescott said to her student, releasing Oliver, who only just remembered to breathe again.

"I guess," Carl said, and looked awkward. Jaqui didn't seem to notice, helping the boys take down the square canvas. It wasn't big. Each side was around a metre long so Carl could carry it in one hand while he held Judith's hand with the other. Oliver took Em's hand and the four left the hall. This time, Em didn't argue when Judith took his hand.

* * *

"So..."

They were sat inside the car now. Parked outside the hair dressers. Judith and Em in their seats. (Em, being older, wasn't in a car-seat, much to Judith's mortification despite the fact that it was _her_ car-seat anyway) The painting was placed between them, facing Em, which Oliver thought might've been a mistake seeing as Em hadn't stopped staring at it. Every once in a while he'd look at Oliver, like, _What on God's earth are you doing in there? I demand an answer!_ Oliver would've laughed at him, but Carl's sentence start didn't go without the awkward silence that followed. . .

"So?" Oliver replied eventually.

"What happens now?" Carl asked.

Oliver pressed his lips between his teeth, and he looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... you know, um, you and me?"

"Nothing _has_ to happen," Oliver said, quiet and careful. "We could decide that we hate each other by the end of the week for all we know." Carl smirked, but Oliver knew that it was only to avoid looking worried. He cleared his throat. Oliver didn't know when he'd ever been so talkative, but today, being quiet just didn't seem to work anymore. "Look, way I see it, we don't have to _announce_ whatever this is or might be or whatever, we can just... _be..._ you know?" Carl was staring at him. He looked both afraid and like he needed to hear this, like he was hanging off of every syllable Oliver spoke. "I'm... I'm not... _ashamed._ "

"Me neither," Carl decided, it seemed, in that moment, and Oliver wanted to reach over and touch his jaw bone, run his thumb down his nose, but he got too nervous and looked down at his seat instead, _Umm_ ing for a second and trying not to smile. . .

"So..." Oliver said to the doodle of himself in the middle compartment from the day in Taco Bell. He'd left it in here, and Carl had kept it. _Forgotten_ about it was probably more accurate, because it was a little torn, and there was a stained green smudge on the edge from the very _last_ left over M&M, but still.

"So," Carl replied, then said, "we'll just be. For a little while."

Oliver looked up at him again. . . "For a little while."

Carl started tipping, and now Oliver did reach forward, sliding his palm across his jaw bone. He swallowed, even now, amazed by how warm and soft he felt. He must have shaved recently. Even the imperfections on Carl's skin like a few pimples or blemishes didn't seem like imperfections at all. They were just Carl, and Oliver just really, _really_ liked it.

Someone giggled.  
Actually, _two_ someone's giggled.

Oliver and Carl pulled back, looking at their siblings, scowling. "Zip it, boggart," Oliver said to Em, and the little boy stuck his tongue out at him, then looked at the art final as if he was worried it might've reprimanded him. Oliver stopped laughing and turned to Carl, "We should go see if your grandma's ready."

"Yeah, we gotta be quick. You've gotta go to your dad's."

* * *

Since Oliver and Em's things were at home, and his car was at Carl's, they decided to stop off at Oliver's house first and collect their things and then go back to Carl's. Rosa was a little confused. But once Oliver briefly explained the story, missing out around the forty percent of it that involved him and Carl kissing, he'd gotten everything he and Emilio needed while Rosa, Whinny and the kids chatted in the kitchen. Rosa only called up once to ask Oliver what was taking so long –Carl's face was to blame, not that Oliver was doing anything to it, no, they'd just started talking, and Oliver didn't want to stop, and so Carl went on to tell him about the art final and the book he was reading, and Oliver took advantage of the opportunity and looked at his face for as long as he could. But anyway, now, Oliver was in the back seat of Carl's car wedged between Judith, the painting of himself, and Em. Whinny was sat in the passenger seat, and Carl got out to help Em out, laughing a little when Oliver struggled to clamber over Judith's seat without damaging the painting. Whinny helped Judith out, taking the painting inside with them, and Carl did his best not to look embarrassed and worried when she realised who the painting was of, which she looked a little surprised by but didn't seem to think anything else about.

"Bye, sweetie," Whinny said just before she was gone.

"Bye, ma'am."

"You comin' over tomorrow for Independence Day?" she said. "You're more than welcome. We're celebrating with a barbecue out back."

"I'm actually at my dad's. But I'll probably see you next week sometime. Set up a play date for the little guys."

She smiled, her wrinkles lining up all _senior Grimely-_ like _._ "Sounds wonderful."

When she'd gone inside, and when Carl'd taken Em to the car and strapped him into his seat, Oliver went over, smirking when Carl bumped their fists, but leant in, whispered a quick, "Looking forward to that play date," into his ear.

Oliver had never been a giggler, and so when he let a few out he cringed at himself and felt his cheeks heat up, pulling away. "See you, man."

"See you..."

They were doing it again, the _supposed to be leaving but not_ thing. Oliver knew he was procrastinating. His father wouldn't even know if he and Em turned up a little late, he wasn't going to be there until gone midnight anyway.

"Dude, go!" Carl laughed, walking into him to get him to start moving, his hands against his chest, and when Oliver held on to them, stumbling into his seat, they were suddenly kissing. This kiss, unlike all of the last, was not nearly as wet –seeing as neither tears nor lake water were involved, and so, naturally, it lasted for a little longer. This wasn't intended, as Oliver was sure that it was only supposed to be a quick peck on the lips, but soon he was pulling, and soon Carl's hands were in Oliver's hair, bunching up his beanie. Oliver only brought himself to stop when he remembered that Em was in his car seat behind them staring like he wasn't really sure what was happening. It made Oliver cringe, and he was panting, his back against the middle section of the car with Carl so far inside with him that he might as well have been driving, too, both feeling exhausted and wide awake all at once. For Oliver, this had been the most mentally tiring day since his parents split up. He wasn't sure how to cope with it. More kissing might've been an answer, but that wasn't really practical. So Oliver stared at Carl, eyes wondering. . .

"Whoa..."

Carl swallowed, "Yeah..."

Oliver wasn't sure he'd ever wanted to kiss someone so much. No, he was _sure_ he hadn't. Sleeping with Penelope, on the few occasions that it had happened, had always been something that never actually meant anything, like it didn't really count. It was like a stress reliever, like playing an intense video game or something. The kissing and the touching and the sex was always just for the experience, not the actual person, and it was okay like that. But now, it was crazy. Oliver wanted to reach inside Carl's chest and close his fist around his heart, see if he could steal it away. He wanted to crawl inside him and live there. He felt physically pained by the realisation and knowledge that all of that was physically impossible –made him want to cry, and for a second he was convinced that unless they started kissing again he really _would_ burst out crying.

"You should probably," he said instead. "Um..."

"Yeah," Carl nodded. "I should..."

"Yeah," Oliver agreed again, breathless, staring.

So, eventually, Carl pushed himself out of the car, pressing the back of his wrist against his lips as if to remind them to calm down. He was nodding, _umm_ ing, fidgeting.

Oliver's stomach was flipping over itself. "Goodbye."

"No," Carl said then, at first stern, but as he spoke his voice became softer. "Don't tell me goodbye. Last time that happened it took you three years to come back."

Oliver wasn't really sure what his stomach was doing anymore. But it was doing something that made his entire body feel like it was getting pulled inside out, and he was swallowing, fidgeting, nodding, and so he closed the door and started up the engine. He was going to head off, but Carl reached out and tapped on the glass, suddenly, like he couldn't help it, and Oliver unwound the window. "Carl?"

"Can I kiss you again?" he almost interrupted. "Just one more time?"

Oliver nodded. Nodded and nodded and nodded. A soft Georgian wind was blowing Carl's T-shirt against his chest. Oliver wanted to reach out and hold down the ripples with his palms. He wanted to so intensely that his mouth turned to cotton and he could almost _hear_ his own pupils blowing. So Carl leant through the window and kissed him again. Just one more time. Oliver should have been wondering if anyone could see them from their homes, or if in the time of all the kissing anybody had just so happened to walk past, if Whinny had decided to glance out the window. But then again, no, he shouldn't have been wondering any of that – neither of them should, and so neither cared that they hadn't been, because they were just _there..._ being.

" _Carl and_ _Oliver,  
sittin' in a tree,  
K-I-S-S-I-N-G."_

So of course Em had to go and ruin it like the good little gremlin– sorry, _brother_ he was. Carl pulled away, lips parting with a cringe worthy _smack_ that would've been embarrassing had they not just experienced about the most thrilling epiphany of their lives. Oliver suddenly wanted to throw his little brother out of the window. But Carl spoke before he got to it. "Drive safe."

"I'm totally in love with you," Oliver said, but the rest of the world heard, "See you soon, man."

"Yeah," Carl replied, but Oliver heard, "Like, completely and ridiculously and unhealthily in love with you."

Oliver hadn't pulled away from the curb yet, and either he was just about to or he meant for them to start kissing again.

* * *

 **Notes**

Thanks for reading.

 **Preview: Peanutted M &M's are evil.**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	16. Part 2: I'm Scared

**the walking shadow** haha thank you!

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Bah! Haha. I'm sorry.

 **BloodOnMyMachete** Ahahahhhaaaa! So much kissing! Hahaha thank you! I loved the painting, too. And I love that in everybody's head you've all imagined it differently. I just needed you all to see colour, and I think you guys did the rest x)

 **WyattsRattyShoes** I'm starting to really question what must be bad about all that trash if you're all such a big part of it. Hahaha.

 **Ruby720** ilyimcryingohgoshthatssoniceahhh

 **ANDYAURGH (im just gonne make up names for you from now on for what your reviews do to my brain, ok? Ok.)** AURGHHH ILY YOU'RE SO GREAT. I do intend to have them finish the bucket list. haha, number 21 on the bucket list might be a bit of an anti-clima.

 **Guest** oooooooooooookkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy (I actually only thought to brush up this chapter today because of you, so thanks x)

* * *

 **Friendly warning: Possible mild triggers for self harm and eating disorders.**

* * *

 **"Sail" by AWOLNATION**

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** ** _MDDeLuca_** _ **_Psychiatrist**_ _ **  
**_ **Date: 3** **rd** **July 2015  
Time: 16:42pm  
Subject: We're back**

Hey, Dad, we're here. Safe. I forgot Em's epinephrine shots. Could you pick some up from the drug's store?

* * *

 **From:** ** _MDDeLuca_** _ **_Psychiatrist**_ _ **  
To: OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: 3** **rd** **July 2015  
Time: 17:29pm  
Subject: (no subject)**

Yep. Totally fine. I should be home later. Night.

* * *

Oliver: See, I told you not to eat the spicy stuff, man!

Em: It burns!

Oliver: Jesus, Em! You didn't have to eat another!

Em: Oliver!

Oliver: What do you want me to do?

Em: Water!

Oliver: No, that'll make it worse. You gotta have milk.

Em: Miiiilk!

Oliver: Alright. _Alright!_ I'll get you some. Just wait...

Em: _Mmm! Mahh!_

Enid: Oh my God! Oliver, hurry!

Oliver: Here, man. Drink. H-hey, no! No, use the glass, moron! Jesus.

Em: _Mhhmm! Mmhh. Oh. Gahh._

Oliver: Enid, quit laughing.

Enid: I can't help it!

Oliver: Better, Em?

Em: Y... Yeah.

Oliver: Life's a bitch, huh?

Em: Yeah... life's a bitch.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **Date: July 4** **th** **2015  
Time: 11:00AM**

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

* * *

He texted his mom, brother, Carl, Sophia, Duane, and Penelope the same message, adding a ridiculous emoji for Carl, though. Their father hadn't come home yet. He had the decency to call earlier in the morning saying that he'd gotten caught up trying to get the next transfer arrangements up to scratch, which Oliver was pretty sure meant he'd met another woman at some point and was currently riding her into the next dimension to celebrate. But whatever. Oliver was far too busy smirking at his friend's replies to care about his dad today.

* * *

Duane: _Right back at you, dude. Glad to hear from you again. How're you spending this grand day? Dad, Michonne, Andre and I're gonna be over Carl's in a few hours with Sophia and her mom. Whinny and Carol make the BEST casserole. No joke._

Oliver's reply: _Thanks, man. Nothing too exciting, just hanging with Em and my friend at the cabin. Have a good time!_

* * *

Mom: _Thank you, sweetie. Love you both more than air. Enjoy xx_

Oliver replied: _Have a good day._

* * *

Oliver had originally been worried about leaving his mom alone on Independence Day, but he'd come to learn that Rosa relished the days that she had the house to herself. She'd read and catch up on Game of Thrones and do other _Rosaly_ things that Oliver was sure he would find worse than agonisingly boring to think of.

* * *

Sophia: _Thanks!_ Then a few moments later: _Hey... sooooo... how'd it go?_

Oliver replied: _I took my shot._

* * *

Penelope: _You seem happier than usual. I'm kinda really hoping you are. Happy Independence Day, Ollie._

Oliver replied: _Yes, I am._

* * *

Patrick: _I'km wau too drunkk to reply ritgh nowq._

Oliver replied: _Go easy, bro._

* * *

Oliver was about to email Enid again when his phone rang:

 _Carl Grimes  
Calling..._

"Hello, young sir!"

Carl laughed. _"_ _Happy Independence Day to you, too."_

"So I hear that when Whinny and Carol's cooking skills are combined their meals are so good that joking is out of the question."

Carl laughed again. _"_ _You have no idea. Their Independence Day casserole is magic."_

"Ugh. I'm missing out."

" _You really are."_

"Actually, Enid, Em and I are gonna spend the whole day watching the _entire_ latest season of Breaking Bad together, so I'm sure I'll live."

" _Who's Enid?"_

"Oh, she's –like– my best friend here. I _stole_ her Aviators and she accused me of being a peeping tom." Oliver leant against the hallway wall and stretched, "and, I gotta admit, it was the start of a _beautiful_ friendship."

" _So it's like a Netflix and chill date?"_

"Oh my God!" Oliver laughed, but heard the insecurity in Carl's voice even though he'd been joking. "No, it most definitely is not." Then he paused, grinned. "Wait, are you jealous?"

" _No,"_ Carl lied. _"_ _I wouldn't give you the ego boost."_

Oliver smiled, and it was in that moment that Em strolled around the staircase. Naked. "Uhh... Em?"

Emilio looked up, little Emilio exposed and not giving a damn about it. He had two American flags on his face that Oliver had painted there this morning –at the time Em was fully clothed in his patriotic attire. But he'd tried to paint another flag on his arm without help and ended up spilling paint on his jeans and over the carpet. He was supposed to be changing them while Oliver cleaned up the mess, but it seemed he'd decided he didn't need clothes at all. He held a freezie in his hand, and he hummed his hello back while he chewed on the blue ice. Blue was probably a bad idea seeing as Em was already prone to climbing the walls like a possessed goblin _without_ e-numbers.

"Em... can you go put your clothes back on?"

"No..." the little boy groaned.

" _And, why doesn't Em have clothes on?"_

Oliver brought the cell back up to his face, frowning at his little brother, who stuck a bright blue tongue out at him. "He does that sometimes. Hold on a sec, man – Em, go put some clothes on."

"But I _hate_ clothes!"

" _Go,_ dork," Oliver laughed, shunning him towards the staircase. Em's shoulder blades were so big in comparison to his tiny body that they looked like they would one day sprout feathers and fly away with him, and the bobbles of his spine would run down his back like dinosaur spikes. If Em woke up from a nightmare Oliver or Rosa would have to run their thumb down them to get him to calm down again. "I'll be back in a minute."

Em and Oliver shared the bedroom. There was a mirror on the landing propped against the wall. It should've been hung up but nobody had gotten around to it. Through it, Oliver saw Em sitting outside their bedroom door, sulking, because apparently wearing clothing was _that_ torturous, and apparently glaring at his privates was the best way to cope with it.

"Em!" Oliver barked. "If you're not dressed by the time we get back Enid'll see your wiener!"

Em gasped in horror, jumping to his feet and rushing into the bedroom.

Oliver brought the cell to his ear and heard Carl laughing. "Works every time," the older said in triumph.

He left the house and walked next door, talking to Carl about the patriotic T-shirt that Whinny had bought for her grandson that was two sizes too big but he had no choice but to wear anyway, and about how Carl didn't care because she smiled so wide when she saw him in it, and seeing that kind of made him feel really, really good. Oliver was smiling when he knocked on Enid's front door.

"Thanks for the face paint, by the way," he said through the cell, noticing that Elena and Jack's car were gone. _They're probably at work,_ he thought. Jack was an accountant and Elena was this web-designer for some expensive clothing company. A slither of anxiety ran through Oliver's gut when a minute passed and nobody answered, and he went quite on the phone, listening through the door with his ear pressed to the key hole. He heard water running. "Enid?"

No answer.  
Bad feeling worsened.

"Enid?"

" _Everything okay?"_

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Just a sec." He wedged his cell between his cheek and shoulder, trying the door. But it was locked. He knocked again, called her name, but nothing, just the water. "Enid, this isn't funny!" Of course it wasn't. He knew that. She would have known that, too. Which is exactly why Oliver knew something was wrong.

He went around the back and found the spare key under the flower pot, going in through the back door. A million scenarios played through Oliver's head as he rushed in through the house. He pictured finding her bent over the toilet purging her stomach up, or drowned in the bathtub with an empty box of pills floating in the water beside her, her skin purple and puffy like in an episode of NCIS he watched the other day, or he'd find her crumbled on the bathroom floor, sat in a pool of her own blood as it drained from her wrists. Oliver hated his imagination sometimes.

"Enid!"

"Oliver?" her voice was small, but he followed it up to her bedroom. Pickle hid in his shell when Oliver ran across the room to Enid's en-suit bathroom, bursting through the door hard enough that it broke the lock; snapping right off the wooden frame. A scream, and then, "OLIVER! WHAT THE HELL?!"

"Eni– OHMYGOD!" He yelped, slapping his hands over his eyes, almost doubling over with relief and shock at the same time. "OhmyGod! OhmyGod! You..."

"OLIVER!"

"Where're your clothes?!" Why he asked that first, he'd never know.

"Oliver, get out!"

" _Nyah_!" he stumbled. "I'm sorry!"

"GET OUT!"

He garbled something in Italian that not even he'd translated yet, turning on his heel and running right into the wall. He bounced off of it with a loud _CLANCK_ , crumpling to the floor. " _Gyah_!"

"Jesus!" she was laughing now, and he could hear her scrambling to get out of the water and into her towel. "Shit, are you okay?"

"Yeah!" he gasped, rubbing the throb on his forehead, clamping his eyes, searching blindly for the door. "Sorry! I thought... Jesus, where's the fucking door!?" She took his shoulders and guided him out of the bathroom. "I'm so sorry," he said again, his cheeks burning. "I'm... Oh, crap. _Ow._ I dropped my phone."

"I'll get it." She did, her yellow towel wrapped around her now, hair bound up in a loose bun on top of her head, stray strands stuck to her face, and they both could hear Carl through the line. "Think you left someone on hold."

Oliver took the phone awkwardly. "Hey, man." Enid smirked and went back into the bathroom, mouthing, _I'll be out in a minute,_ to him, and he nodded, aware of the furnace that had lit up across his face. "Sorry."

" _So, you_ are _a peeping tom?"_

"No!" Oliver barked. "It was an accident!"

Carl laughed. _"_ _I know, Oliver. I heard the whole thing."_

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his aching forehead. "God, I thought... I thought..."

"You thought what?" Enid asked through the door.

Oliver looked up at it. "I gotta go, man. I'll talk to you later."

" _Okay. Happy Independence Day."_

Oliver smiled, bit his lip. "Happy Independence Day, Carl."

Something clattered in the bathroom. "Wait. Carl?" Enid gasped through the wood. " _The_ Carl?"

Oliver hung up before Carl heard her, and a few minutes later Enid left the bathroom and grinned at him. Oliver grinned back. She was dressed in her usual knee length shorts, T-shirt and purple cardigan now, and was brushing her hair. She took a seat beside him on her bed and put the brush between them. But Oliver couldn't smile for very long, the fear and adrenaline was still dizzying him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I got scared."

She watched him, asked, "Why?"

"I thought... I thought you'd done something to yourself."

Enid had this power to make Oliver reveal everything to her. It scared him sometimes. But he'd started to learn that sometimes it was better to be blunt. She smiled, but like an, _I know, Oliver,_ kind of smile, a smile that looked both grateful and irritated. "Come on," she said, taking his hand. She thumbed at Mika's bracelet, frowning in thought. "Let's go watch _Breaking Bad."_

"Em better've put some clothes on, too. I'm not sure how much more genitalia I can look at in one day."

She scoffed. "You're such a jerk."

They went next door. Oliver went into the lounge and started setting up Netflix while Enid went on the search for Em, chanting that he better be dressed by now. "What the hell?!" Oliver called, flipping through the suggested categories, laughing. "Why is Captain America in the _Raunchy Drama_ section?"

"OLIVER!"

His heart froze, and suddenly that bad feeling that'd been dulling ever since the moment he saw Enid's boobs sky rocketed infinitely. He was rushing through the house, up the staircase, following Enid's screaming to his father's office, and right there, collapsed on the floor against Enid's knees, was Emilio.

"Oliver, what's wrong with him?! OhmyGodohmyGod!"

He'd dropped to his knees, grabbing the little boy around the shoulders. Em was groaning, crying, reaching out, his nose running, his eyes and throat swollen, wheezing badly, gasping for breath, and the skin around his face was red and rashy and lumpy. Oliver pulled up his T-shirt, and the rashes had spread all the way across his chest and stomach, like burns. Em started gagging, and Oliver pulled him onto his front before he choked and let him yack down his shirt.

"Call nine-one-one."

Enid didn't hesitate. "What's happening to him?"

"Allergic reaction," Oliver said steadily despite the fear that was suffocating him, holding Em until he could stop throwing up, and Oliver could see the little bits of chewed peanuts and chocolate in the chunks. He looked around, saw the split open and empty packet of peanutted M&M's on the floor next to his father's desk. "Nut allergy."

"We have to take him to th – hello! Hello, yes. Ambulance. Please, it's an emergency."

Oliver scooped Em up from the floor, grimaced when the little boy threw up down his front again. He was crying, afraid and trying to ask Oliver to help him, and Oliver shushed him. "Calm down, man. We're taking you to the hospital." It took Oliver a moment to realise that he was crying, too. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Enid followed them out to the car, opened doors and spoke on the phone, giving the address and telling them what car and which roads they'd be using to get there, and in moments Oliver was speeding out of Still Street, understanding that it was necessary. He heard Em's wheezing and whimpering, and Enid's desperate mutterings to them both.

"His eyes won't open," Enid rasped. "Don't you have those adrenaline shots or something?"

"No!" Oliver shouted, and he punched the steering wheel so hard it beeped. "I left it back at King – _fucking–_ County!"

"It's okay," Enid panted, to Em, to Oliver, to herself, all at once, cradling the suffocating Em against her chest. "Shh. Shh. It's okay."

The hospital was at least an hour away, which was too long, they both knew, and Oliver was so terrified that all he could do was focus, refusing to believe that his little brother could die because of this, refusing to believe that he could die because of those stupid M&M's, because he was too stupid to keep an eye on him, because he was too stupid to remember the shots, because he was too stupid to just wait an extra three minutes and take Em to Enid's with him, and so he drove and drove and drove. . .

"FUCK!"

"Oliver, he's not breathing!"

"No! NO! He's FINE!"

"Oh God! Em, please!?"

"Come on! Come on! COME ON!"

Sirens. . .

* * *

Oliver had never had a family member in danger before. He'd never witnessed someone so close to dying that their every breath was a torturous mix of terror and relief all at once. He'd never been so scared. The fear made his whole body numb. But this was a new kind of numb. This numb pulled him out of himself, made him watch with no control over what was happening. In the ambulance, they'd cut Em's throat and stuck a tube into his windpipe. Oliver saw them cart him through the building, rushing past drunken celebrators who'd fallen over in glass or something similar, their family members or friends moving out of the way and staring at the little suffocating boy on the stretcher.

But Em was okay.  
Unconscious and weak and covered in rashes and attached to an IV drip, but okay.  
He came back from it.  
He wasn't too far gone.

Oliver had been with him all day and night. He'd called his dad and told him what happened, and once Mr. De Luca knew that Em wasn't dying anymore he said that work had sent him to another State and that he couldn't make it back until tomorrow. Oliver hung up. He called their mom, made everything sound a lot less severe for her sake. Then Patrick called and Oliver cried over the phone like. . . well, like a boy who almost just lost his little brother. Patrick was crying, too, since it was also his brother. He wanted to drive down but he was still too drunk. When it got to the evening Carl called, just because he said he would, and Oliver texted him back instead because he didn't want him to hear him crying, too. But Carl called anyway, and Oliver cried over the phone again. Enid, who'd driven Oliver's car to the hospital without getting pulled over –because she may or may not have had her license revoked after running a few (seven) red lights last year, had to go home when it got to midnight. Elena and Jack came and got her. Elena gave Oliver twenty dollars to buy himself food, let him take her charger cable to use in his car and said she'd be by in the morning to bring him breakfast.

So Oliver was left alone with his little brother in the middle of a huge stuffy hospital. He was scared, even though Em wasn't in danger anymore. It was more the idea of it, that if he'd just not left Em alone, if he'd gone back sooner. It was his fault.

"Kid?"

Oliver startled, came to, looked up. He'd been sat on the wall outside the back entrance of the hospital, getting some fresh air after almost a whole day in that hospital room. Em was asleep now. He was awake for a little while before, sore and confused, and Oliver told him their bedtime story and ran his thumb down his spine until the little boy calmed down and fell back asleep.

"Kid," again. A thick Southern accent.

Oliver must have fallen asleep on the wall. He felt heavy and foggy, and was so dazed that he had to look around him before he saw the man talking to him. "Huh?"

The guy was tall and well built, in his mid-forties. He had long, dark brown hair and messy, stubbly facial hair. He looked tired and old. But like a _worn_ old. Worn with stress and labour rather than a significant amount of age, with dark circled bags under his eyes and dirt under his fingernails –Oliver knew this because he was holding out a cigarette. The boy's eyes went cross eyed to look at it. The guy said, "Looks like y'might need it."

Oliver shook his head, uncrossed his eyes to look up to the man again. "I'm good. Thanks," he mumbled. It went quite, and the man lit the cigarette himself and went back to minding his own business, slouching against the wall opposite. "Um... d-do you know how long I've been out here?"

The man shrugged and grunted, "Y'were here when I got here."

Oliver nodded, rubbing his face, and he checked Lizzie's watch, reading that it was 4:00AM. "Shit."

"Why're ya here anyway?" the man asked. "Why don't ya go home? Watch your TV shows. Let your parents deal with whatever you're doin' here."

"It's just me and my brother," Oliver said, defensive. "And I'm eighteen."

The guy almost smiled, but didn't, at all. "Alright, kid," he said. Oliver looked away, thought about going back inside to see Em, but. . . "'M here for my dad." The guy wasn't looking at him, so Oliver wondered if maybe one of the voices in his own head might've just spoken instead. But the man glanced at Oliver, like he was checking that the boy was really listening, too, and so now with both parties' insecurities confirmed, the man continued: "My brother died a few months ago. Got stabbed by some junkie asshole. Guess dad'd been takin' it pretty hard." Then the guy shook his head, laughing dryly and slowly. "Don't even know why'm tellin' you."

Oliver rubbed his mouth awkwardly, but he took a breath, holding it for a second before summoning the courage to speak, "Sorry about your brother."

"I'm not," the guy sneered. "Son'bitch got out easy. He's not stuck here lookin' after our sorry excuse for a dad. Payin' for them to clean the shit from his shrivellin' ass hole. Cleanin' up after'm _both..._ Only reason I'm here is because I spent my whole life not tellin'm o' the shit they put me through. Jus'... let it slide.. _._ And now I gotta watch'm die."

Oliver's heart was beating too fast, intimidated by the man but also focussing on him intently. He was frowning. They both were, and the guy finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the asphalt curb, and without another word he turned on his heel and walked back inside the hospital, biting a thumbnail and swinging his other arm as he went. Oliver stared after him, shell shocked. He went to pull at his beanie only to realise it'd fallen off into the flower bed beside him, so he grabbed it and shook it off, sighing when he replaced it again.

The stranger's story didn't just slide with Oliver though, throughout the early morning it stuck with him, riddled his thoughts. He imagined himself as the guy –of course, not the well built intimidating man exactly like him, but in that he was the younger brother. Oliver imagined himself middle aged, with Patrick off doing something important and useful with his life because everybody knew that he just would one day, and Em would be some emperor of his own llama colony or something else equally as fantastic, and it would just be Oliver, like that guy, dealing with and cleaning up after his father because nobody else cared enough to, distant from his own family because he never told them how he really felt.

Oliver decided that he wasn't going to let it get to that point. . .

* * *

"Mom?"

" _What is it? Is Emilio alright? Are you? Are you eating enough? Are you sleeping enough? Oh of course you're not it's four o'clock in the morning. Try to rest when you can though, okay, promise me?"_

"Mom," Oliver said again, and he was walking slowly through the corridor, heading back to Em's room from the bathroom. "I'm alright. Swear. I'm... I'm really alright. I just wanted to call. See if you were."

" _Oh,"_ Rosa said, calmer, and Oliver could see her smile in the comfortable pause that followed. _"_ _We'll I'm alright, too. I've been awake for a little while, but I'm alright, promise. Just worried."_

"Yeah," Oliver said quietly, stepping into an elevator with a little old lady in a wheelchair. Her pale wrist band said, _'Abeula: Hip replacement.'_ She was getting pushed by a guy a little older than Oliver in sweat pants and a white vest, and he had an eyebrow piercing –her grandson, Oliver guessed. They spoke quietly together in Spanish.

" _That's what mothers are for though,"_ Rosa said. Oliver smiled, cupping two hands over his phone. He wanted to hug his mother more than he ever had before. He knew that it was now that he needed to make true his decision – that he needed to tell her how he felt, so, he did. . .

"Love you, Mom."

He heard her sigh, pretty sure that he hadn't told her that so proudly since he was a little kid. Oliver probably should have felt a little embarrassed, but he didn't, not even when Abeula turned to him and smiled. Her grandson patted her shoulder and let her kiss the back of his hand.

" _Ti amo, Oliver,"_ his mother replied. _"_ _I'm so proud of you."_

Oliver had to wipe his eyes, scolding himself when his breath hitched too loudly. His mother made a noise, too taken aback to console her son with English, or Italian. The boy cleared his throat. "Sorry."

" _Oh, Oliver."  
_

"Really," he chirped. "I'm alright."

" _Look,"_ she started, her voice soft, like it used to be while she read bedtime stories to him, _"_ _I know_ _things aren't alright, and I know that you're not fine."_

Oliver felt the tears coming back now, and he was relieved when the elevator stopped on the second floor and the old lady and her grandson got out. He tried to keep himself together, but when the doors closed and he was alone, his chest seized, a stifled sob escaping him.

" _Oliver..."_

"I'm scared, Mom," he bit out when he couldn't not anymore. "The hospital's huge, and I can't breathe in it. And Dad's not back yet and Em's asleep and we're all alone here and this was all my fault." The words tumbled out of him like sand falling through his fingers, every grain following the next. "I'm sorry. This would've never happened if I'd brought the stupid shots. If I weren't such a shitty brother."

" _No, baby, stop,"_ Rosa said, suddenly stern. _"_ _Stop that. You saved your brother's life. And I'm gonna be damned if that doesn't count for something. So you gotta pull through, okay? This isn't the end of the world. This is just a little bump, okay? Life'll go on just like it always has. It's shitty right now because it's gotta be shitty. It's gotta be so that we know how great the good moments are."_

Oliver was a little stunned. For 1. he hadn't ever recalled a moment that his mother had called him _baby_ in his life, and 2. he'd never heard his mother cuss before. He wondered if she'd been talking to Penelope. Or maybe Carl.

"Jesus, Mom."

" _Do you understand me?"_ she asked.

He nodded, hiccuping, "Yes, Ma'am," into his cell.

" _Alright,"_ she said, softer. _"_ _Get some rest."_

"Okay."

" _Ti amo."_

"I love you, too."

* * *

Oliver wasn't surprised to find Em asleep in his room when he got there, neither was he surprised to see that someone had come in and taken the juice box and cookie wrapper that Oliver had bought for him and thrown it in the trash, or the fact that the fat black spider in the corner of the room was still there, creeping him out like it had been all day. But he _was_ surprised to find that Em and the creepy spider weren't the only living creatures in the room. . .

"Hey, Oliver," Carl said.

 _This_ creature was definitely a surprising find. _Startling,_ actually. So startling, in fact, that for a moment Oliver was less terrified of the spider. He kind of blinked. Once. Twice. Ten times. Trying to get the blur, that was in fact quite an undeniably legitimate Carl Grimes creature and not a blur at all, out of his vision, and of course that didn't work very well, as blinking away things that are actually really there is pretty impossible, and so there wasn't really an awful lot Oliver could do to keep the rest of his emotional composure when the Carl Grimes creature rose from the chair and handed out the kind of hug you give the one person in the world that might need it the most, and in that moment, Oliver definitely needed it.

"What're you doing here?"

That was the first thing Oliver could bring himself to say after all the blubbering and the hugging and the emotional turmoil, and Carl didn't answer because it was kind of a stupid question anyway, just hugged him tighter, laughing into his shoulder. "I went to your dad's address," Carl said. "Got it from something you posted on Facebook with Enid."

Actually, Enid had posted it, telling her friends about the spicy pizza incident with Em. She'd gotten a photo of him downing the cup of milk with Oliver in the background stuffing his mouth with another slice of pizza, and the caption said, _Note to self, Spicy food and four year olds don't mix_. Penelope had put a comment down that somehow involved comic books, and Oliver wasn't surprised by how quickly she and Enid became Facebook friends.

"I met her," Carl said, still talking into Oliver's shoulder, "Enid. Found her when I was looking for your dad's. Well, she kind of found me, scared the crap out of me. And she had this grin on her face that kind of tells me that she knows everything, which... wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be, actually."

Oliver smiled, buried his nose into his neck.

"She told me where the hospital was," Carl went on, "and apparently I look a lot like you because they told me where Em was when I pretended I couldn't remember." Carl kissed the top of his head. By this time Oliver was kind of sobbing into his chest. "I'm really glad Em's okay."

Oliver gasped, biting back the _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,_ and when he pulled away he just doubled forward and started hugging him again.

"You're a really gross crier," Carl stated, and Oliver did pull away then, shoving Carl's shoulder, wiping his face, but Carl just grinned at him. Their foreheads brushed, but both were too sky to really press them. "In a cool way, though."

"Sap," Oliver mumbled, sniffing, and he rested his forehead against Carl's collarbone; at first as another affectionate gesture, but then he was just resting there, bringing his arms up under him and holding onto his shoulders, breathing, relieved, and for the first time in hours feeling like he could genuinely let his guard down a little. Carl kissed his forehead again.

"Come on," he whispered softly, pulling, "you're exhausted."

"Okay." Oliver's voice was very small, and he was nodding, barely aware that Carl had set himself down on the arm chair, pulling Oliver to sit with him on it. Oliver wasn't sure what body part he'd burrowed his nose into, just that it was warm and soft and Carl's. Oliver vaguely wondered if he should try to find a more comfortable place to fall asleep, but 1. he really was done, as in, _done-isn't-even-a-strong-enough-word-for-it-done,_ and 2. the Carl Grimes creature with the warm soft something his nose was currently burrowed into seemed to be all the amount of comfortable that was necessary.

* * *

 **Notes**

Thank you **Andy** for the spilled face-paint inspiration xxx

I literally could not think of another way to get Daryl into this story. He's just... not supposed to be here. Like, he's Daryl. Lone ranger. I feel like the Apocalypse was really the only thing that brought him people he cared about, which is kind of sad, but true, and so I think leaving him there, is the kindest thing to do for him.

Other cameos included: Miguel and his grandmother Abuela (the people in the old people's home in Atlanta, Season 1, because yes, they just so happened to be there at that point in time, too)

Also, someone wrote Caliver Fanfiction! And no, _not_ just me! The Misfit Writer! Check out their new story, _A Stale M &M's Christmas. _It's soooo cute!

Also, check out my new Fear the Walking Dead fan fiction, _Quinn._

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	17. Part 2: Coming Free

**the walking shadow** Aw, thank you! Yeah, I seriously love Emilio. He's probably my favourite OC of mine next to Oliver and Quinn.

 **DarthGranola** Haha. I felt so weird typing 'Enid's boobs'... I had to stop for a second and think about my life xD

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** THAAANK YOUUU!

 **Guest** Omfg, this story is legitimately in love with you x)

 **AGGXX5** Thank you, and I'm so glad I can do that for you if only for a few minutes xxx

 **WyattsRattyShoes** Hahaha Thank you! Confession: I was slightly drunk when I wrote the scene when Carl showed up. I was thinking about the whole, _I'm just another monster, too,_ thing, and then I was thinking, _Maybe he doesn't have to be a monster, maybe he can just be a creature...?_ and then _that_ whole trianwreck happened hahaha

* * *

 **"Stressed Out" by Twenty One Pilots**

* * *

When Oliver opened his eyes, skin was what he saw first. His mouth rather gracelessly hung open, dangerously close to drooling, and he felt a pulse against his nose. Carl's pulse. The boys were in the same place they'd fallen asleep; Carl sat behind Oliver in the arm chair that was only just big enough for the both of them to fit on like this. _Like this,_ being, Carl sat sideways, his legs bent over one arm of the chair and his back against the other –his head was rolled back like it looked painful, with his mouth open and his throat exposed and his hair flipped back like a manga character stood with the wind in their face, and was Oliver sat on the chair like a sort of normal person –normal if there weren't a living human behind him rather than the back of the chair, and he was aware of how much he kind of really liked it, how warm he was and how solid he felt and how good it was that he was just there, and when Oliver looked down past his cheek across the room, he saw his brother awake in the hospital bed chewing on an English muffin, only, Oliver hadn't bought it for him. . .

Someone cleared their throat, and Oliver's head snapped up from Carl's collarbones. He was still exhausted, and his hand came up and rubbed down his face, trying to regain proper motor control and brain activity. But it all suddenly flipped on red-alert when he saw him, stood on the other side of the hospital bed, tending to Em but focussed on the apparent elephant in the room.

"Dad."

"Hi."

Oliver pushed himself up. Carl stirred, but his mind was still in _I'm-asleep-in-my-own-bed-right-now_ mode, unlike Oliver's, who's was in, _Holy-shit-my-dad's-been-stood-there-this-whole-time!,_ and so Carl sniffed and fell asleep again. It was raining outside, and a flash and clack of thunder made Oliver startle. Mr. De Luca's dark brown eyebrows rose and his under-bitten bearded jaw ground side to side. It was something Oliver's father did when he was uncomfortable. Like when Patrick talked about why he was glad he dropped out of college, or when the man would have to sit through Christmas dinner with _Nonno_ back when he'd come visit before the divorce, or when he had to give Oliver the talk. Mr. De Luca ground his jaw a lot around Oliver.

"Who's your friend?" he asked. He had little rain droplets on his suit from the short trip he must've taken from the car.

"Carl," Oliver answered, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Carl Grimes. He's, uh... from King County. Drove up this morning."

"Oh. Why?" he asked. Oliver started to shrug but thought better of it.

"Because I was alone." Mr. De Luca took Em's wrapper and tossed it in the trash. Oliver let out a breath that was supposed to be a sigh, but it left him nervous and tense and fast.

"Must've been pretty tired," his father said. "Falling asleep, like that."

Oliver nodded. "It was –like– four am." His dad laughed, Oliver wasn't sure why. "Wait, so," Oliver fumbled. "You're... good? With...?"

"What?"

 _Shit._ Oliver panicked, shook his head in such a way his shoulders moved, too. _Shit... Shit!_

"What?" Mr. De Luca asked again, and looked at Carl, then back to his son, and his brow knitted together. "Good with what?"

"Oh. N-no. Nothing," Oliver said, his heart hammering, and he played it off by fist bumping his little brother, gently ruffling his hair. _Coward,_ he heard himself, but pushed it away. "Hey, Em. How're you feeling?"

"I think there's a slug in my mouth," Em croaked, and pouted like he was really worried about it.

"It's just your tongue," Oliver laughed, but the kind of laugh that almost broke, and he kissed the little boy's forehead, closing his eyes. Em needed a hair cut, he looked like a tiny version of Patrick, only without the beard or the eyebrow scar. "You're good, Em." When he stood back up he turned to their dad, smiling. "How was work?"

"Yeah it was alright," he answered, "had another conference on cognitive behavioural therapy and how effective it is compared with different age groups." Oliver nodded like he had a better idea of what that meant than he really did. "Lady next door, uh, Eleanor?"

"Elena," Oliver corrected.

"Yeah, well, she gave me this for you." He handed Oliver something foiled. Toast or something he presumed.

"Thanks."

"I didn't even know you knew her."

"Yeah," Oliver said. "I hang out with Enid a lot. Elena and Jack's daughter. They're pretty cool. Enid and I were gonna watch Breaking Bad Netflix before everything happened."

"Ohh," his dad said then, and he was smirking. "Yeah, I think I've seen her before. Long brown hair?"

"Yeah." Oliver mumbled he next part: "She likes to shrug."

"She's pretty," his father said. Oliver ignored him, giving Em a juice box when he asked for it. "Now I know why you always wanna come here."

Oliver knew where this was going. "Dad, we're not dating."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, buddy. Nice, by the way. I wouldn't have thought you'd get a girl like that."

"She has a boyfriend."

"I won't say anything," his dad shrugged. Oliver grimaced, but his father didn't seem to notice. "So what've you been up to here, you know, apart from falling asleep on unsuspecting victims?"

Oliver made himself laugh, even though he didn't find it all that funny. He gestured to Em and said, "Mostly just worrying about him."

Mr. De Luca waved his hand, "Nah, Em's a strong kid. He'd have been fine."

Oliver frowned then. For some reason the comment angered him. No, actually, Oliver knew the reason it did. It was because of what he'd said about Enid. It was because Em had found the nutted candy in his father's desk. It was because they'd spent the last day and a half here alone and scared, and to top it all off, Oliver was goddamn tired. Tired of this. Tired of _him. . ._

"Em almost _died,_ Dad."

Oliver didn't mean to say it so bitterly, and he was going to keep going, but Carl stirred, and Oliver deflated into himself, swallowing.

"Hey. Uh. Hey, man."

Carl rubbed his eyes and yawned, jutting his leg out and stretching. "Mornin'," he groaned.

Oliver smiled, stopped when he was smiling too much, instead reached over and tapped Carl's arm. "This is my dad."

"Oh," Carl sat up properly, his cheeks flushing –Oliver wasn't sure if it was because of the situation or if it was from the indignant position his previous stretch had put him in, but Carl collected his charisma again, smiled and shook Oliver's dad's hand, "nice to meet you, Mr. De Luca."

This was the part where he would usually correct somebody and tell them his real surname, because he'd taken Rosa's surname when they married, but the man was quiet, and it took him a few seconds to even say, "You, too," back.

* * *

They were eating breakfast in the hospital cafeteria, Oliver and Carl. Em and his dad were still upstairs. Oliver felt good eating the peanut butter and jelly toast Elena had made for him, sipping on the OJ his dad had given him money to buy. He felt good linking his and Carl's shins under the table like it was some accident that neither boy was worried about rectifying. He felt good talking to him, laughing at his jokes and the funny things he said like when their conversation led to Carl only just learning that pancakes actually aren't supposed to have lumps of unmixed flour in them when they're finished, no matter how much his mother insisted they were fine.

Neither boy noticed that Oliver's father had been watching them for a few minutes, coming down to grab his own breakfast. He saw Carl take Oliver's hand and draw invisible shapes on his palm and fingertips. He saw Oliver watching this happen, biting his lip and trying not to smile. He turned away at the right moment for Oliver to spot him paying. Oliver pulled his feet back and settled his smile and heartbeat, said, "Hey," when his father made his way over with his hash browns and cooked tomatoes and bacon. The man didn't eat them though. Oliver only noticed when he finished his own breakfast. He looked up, swallowed, asked, "You okay, Dad?"

"Yeah," the man said to his tomatoes, and Oliver heard the strain in his voice. "Listen, bud," he added, "I left Em alone. Could you go keep an eye on him?"

Oliver nodded, felt a jolt in his gut when his father gave a smile like it hurt. The corners of his eyes wrinkled and his thin lips twitched. His teeth were grinding so hard Oliver heard them. Oliver gestured Carl to come with him, and the boy got up quickly, but. . .

"Don't you wanna finish your breakfast, Carl?" Mr. De Luca was using his Shrink voice, only it was a corrupted version. It was passive aggressive and threatening.

"Oh, uh..."

"Dad. He's alm–"

"You're brother," he spoke over him, softly, but with no less impact than a bulldozer. His head tilted dangerously, but he didn't look at either of them, and he spoke so quietly Oliver could barely hear him. . . "Please."

Oliver caught Carl's panicked blue snap of eye contact, but it was gone and dug into his pancakes before Oliver could get anything other than, _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,_ out of it. So he left, went upstairs and talked to Em about the relevance of the letter _'z'_ in the alphabet –because apparently this was the sort of thing that Emilio De Luca thought about when he was alone for two minutes in a hospital room the morning after almost dying. "Well, without the letter _z_ there would be no way to say zebra, would there?" Oliver debated. Emilio furrowed his brow and put his finger on his chin and made a long groany sigh in denial. Oliver's eyebrows arched, and he said, "Come on, man. Zebras are cool."

"They're too samey," Em declared.

"No," Oliver said. "Every zebra has its own stripe pattern. Like a thumb print." Em examined his own thumbs, and Oliver twisted them around so that he was at least looking at the right parts. "See?" he asked him. "You've got a little swirl there. I've got a loopy bit. And you'll never find two that are the same. Just like you'll never find two people that are the same. Or zebras." This seemed to enthral the little boy, and he looked at each of his and Oliver's digit-tips to be sure of it. "Cool, huh?"

"You like zebras too much," Em said, like it was a diagnosis. He sounded like his father. Oliver frowned.

"I like zebras just enough, actually," he said. Emilio giggled. In truth Oliver had loved zebra ever since he watched this two hour David Attenborough TV show about them when he was fifteen. Now, Oliver couldn't look at anything zebra-related and not internally force himself not to buy it. Penelope once had to yank him away from an art gallery window in a mall while they were in D.C. a few years ago because Oliver had been staring at the herd of zebra grazing inside the canvas planes for almost ten minutes.

Oliver thought about what his dad and Carl were talking about downstairs. He wondered if his father knew... He wondered why he and Carl hadn't been more careful; acting so friendly, even if it was in a hospital full of people they didn't know, except one person, who they did know... the one person they wanted not to know, at least for now... _Maybe it'll be fine,_ he thought. _Maybe Dad's just going all Protective Father on him instead of. . ._ Oliver pursed his lips, shook his head. _Ah, he's probably not even talking about anything like that at all. He's probably telling Carl about his work, and Carl's probably trying to finish his food quickly enough to leave but not quickly enough to seem rude, nodding and agreeing at the right moments, all charismatic and confident and polite with a soft smile and curious arched eyebrows and firm hand-shakes._ Oliver wondered how Carl did that. How he acted just right around each person, changed himself slightly. Like how he was softer around Sophia and let her play with his hair, how he was mature around his dad and grandma, and playfully helpless around his sister, how he cracked witty jokes around Duane and was brave around the idiots at school. Oliver wondered why he couldn't do it himself, too. He wondered why he had to be the same around everyone. Why he had to be so nervous and self-conscious and quiet... So _Oliver._

"Why are you unhappy?" Em said, and Oliver's eyes snapped up at him.

"I'm not."

"That's what Daddy said," the little boy told his big brother.

Oliver leant forward and dug his chin into the hospital sheets, asked, "Do you think he was telling you the truth?"

Em wiggled his toes and looked at them under the sheets like he was wondering what they were doing, when they stopped Em regarded them in approval, then looked up to Oliver and said, "Daddy doesn't like zebras," as if it was the answer Oliver was looking for... but then again, it kind of was. . .

Just then, Carl walked into the room. Oliver smiled and got up, said, "Hey," but Carl didn't say anything back. He grabbed his cell –which he'd left on the end of the bed, then turned to leave. "Hey," Oliver said again, hooked his sleeve with his thumb and finger. "Everything okay, man?" He turned, and Oliver saw the flush in his cheeks and the well in his eyes. His stomach sank. . . "Carl..." _I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry._

Mr. De Luca strolled into the room, smiled. "Oh." Oliver knew that the surprise in his tone was false. "You leaving, Carl?"

Carl nodded his head and looked away from Oliver, stepped back like he wasn't supposed to be so close. Oliver noticed the hunch in his shoulders. "Yeah," Carl said, looked past Oliver rather than at him, smiled. Oliver didn't believe it. "Yeah uh, I... I'm headed home."

Carl left before Oliver could say anything, and he fumbled for a second, then turned to his dad when he said, "You ready, budd–"

"What did you say to him?"

Mr. De Luca looked at his middle son, smiled falsely again but sighed when Oliver didn't ease up. "I just thought it would be a good idea if he went home."

"Why?" Oliver hissed. "Why would you do that? He drove all this way–"

"His parents are probably wondering wh–"

"No." Oliver's hands clenched against his fringe, and then jutted out, pointed. "Don't... _bullshit,_ Dad."

" _Hey,_ " he growled, and his jaw clenched so hard the muscles on his cheek were visible through his beard, rippling like disturbed water. "I don't... think..."

"What the hell is your problem?"

" _No,_ Oliver!"

Oliver stepped back, his own name from his father's mouth almost threatening to knock him to the floor. . .

"What the hell is _your_ problem?"

Oliver flinched, and something in his heart well and truly broke.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!"

"N... nothing," the boy said, and shrank. Shrank and shrank and shrank. "I'm... I'm me."

"That's not you!" his father told him. "I didn't raise you to be this."

" _Raise_ me?" Oliver asked, because that was the only part of his father's sentence that he could bring himself to talk about without the rest of him breaking, too. "You were never _home._ You _don't_ know me." His voice broke. "AT ALL!"

"You're sure as hell not supposed to be some cock hungry faggot."

Oliver almost laughed, but he was horrified. No. He was infuriated. He was hardly aware of it when he lurched forward and closed his grip against his father's shirt collar, or when one hand came back in a fist. He was going to. He anticipated the _CRACK_ of fist against jaw. The rage he felt shook his whole arm, but Oliver thought about the consequences, saw the shock in his father's face and knew he knew what they would be, too. . .

He stopped, let go.

His dad took a breath and straightened his clothes. Oliver had seen his father mad before, like when he and Patrick had broken the swinging seat on the porch back in North Dakota before they moved to Lorton. He shouted and grounded them and told them to do double chores. But this time it was different. Oliver had never seen him this type of angry. The type of angry where he grimaced like Oliver was no more than a cockroach that'd crawled across his food. The type of angry where he called Oliver names and made him scared of what he would do. It made Oliver ashamed of himself. The man paced –it was something all of his sons did sometimes, even Em if he was disgruntled enough.

"It's like you're _trying_ to mess up your life."

Oliver glanced at Em when the little boy started whimpering, asking, "Why are you yelling?" in that low raspy voice kids use when they're afraid. A nurse came in, told them that they were disrupting other patients. But Oliver suddenly realised he was running out of time again, like before, only this time it wasn't the thrilling, terrifying, crazy buzz like when he rocketed to Carl's front door. This time it was horrible. This time, Oliver was afraid he'd run out of time completely.

"Carl!" he yelled across the parking lot, because he was outside now, searching frantically. It was still raining and he wrapped his arms around himself. His clothes soaked through in minutes. When he saw Carl's car driving towards the exit Oliver broke into a sprint. "Carl, stop!"

He didn't look away from the steering wheel, and the car drove forward another three feet before Oliver planted himself right in front of it. It jerked to a stop, and Oliver had to stagger back before he broke his legs. Carl was in the middle of startling so badly that his hands covered his own eyes when Oliver read, "What the fuck?!" on his lips through the water marks on the windscreen.

"Please!" Oliver gasped. "Don't go."

Carl had been crying. A car beeped behind them, and Oliver flipped them off and told them to go fuck themselves when they drove around them. Carl tried to tell him to go back inside, but Oliver shook his head and kept saying no, and when Carl tried to say something else Oliver slapped the window so hard he got a little afraid he would crack it. Carl wiped his face and wound it down. Neither boy said anything for a moment. It seemed that this was how they had to start their conversations: Not starting them at all. Like everything they needed to say could have those few minutes to lay themselves out in front of them so that when it came to the actual talking part it might come out into something that made a little sense. . .

"I should never have come here," Carl said finally. "It was a mistake. I just... didn't want you to be on your own."

"No, no, please?" Oliver said, his voice kept breaking. "I don't want you to leave."

Carl's expression contorted, and he hiccuped before talking. "Y-your dad. He..."

"Carl. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone with him. I didn't know he would do that... Please?"

Carl's head dipped, and his fingers tightened around the wheel.

"I'm sorry."

Another car drove around them. Oliver watched the tears roll down Carl's cheeks when he looked up. His mouth trembled. . . "Have I ever told you the worst thing anybody ever said to me?"

Oliver stuttered, shook his head, tried to apologise again but Carl shook his head to get him to listen. . .

" _'I killed your baby brother or sister.'_ And it was my mom who said it to me," Carl told him. "I was twelve, and I found her in the bathroom throwing up all those blue and white pills she'd taken, and I sat and held her right up until the ambulance came to pump her stomach. And, I didn't... _tell_ anybody about it. Not until it tore my _whole_ family apart."

Oliver was speechless.

"I know what you said, that day in the bathroom when you had your panic attack," Carl explained. "I know that you said it was hard, and that it was scary, and that the way you feel doesn't go away and that you can't hide it forever... I know that, I do. And I know that some people won't... accept it..." He shook his head and took a breath. "But, getting told, to your face." Another head shake. Rain dripped from Oliver's fringe into the car. Carl looked at the droplets, then looked up to him. Oliver looked small and wet and miserable. "It's alright," Carl told him. "It is. I just – I think I should go home... And I think you should, too."

Oliver stared at him desperately, but nodded.

 _It's alright.  
_ He had to hold onto that.  
 _It's alright. It's alright it's alright it's alright._

"I'll see you when you're home, Oliver."

Carl waited for him to step back, then wound up the window and drove away.

* * *

Oliver didn't waste time to check Em out of the hospital. "Oliver," his dad said, and kept saying it like he was trying to catch up on all the times he never had. "Oliver, wait." But Oliver didn't. He helped get Emilio dressed and grabbed up all his things, yanked his arm out of his father's when he felt fingers close around his forearm. "Oliver. Listen to me."

"We're leaving."

"Yeah," his dad said, laughed. "But we don't have to be so tense about it."

"Not you," Oliver said gravely. "You're going to the cabin and staying there. I'm going to get mine and Em's stuff, and then we are going home." Oliver scowled while he stuffed his pockets with things he'd left around the room. "And I'm not talking about Lorton home. I mean... _home._ In King County. With my mom and my brother... And Scab. One day. If I keep being optimistic." Em was propped on Oliver's hip, and he gently took his big brother's face in each palm. Oliver ignored him, stepped over to his father. "And for the record–" _you are such an asshole,_ he was probably going to say, but his dad cut him off.

"Come on, buddy. Aren't you being kind of dramatic?"

". . . No," Oliver grimaced. "And I'm _not_ your _buddy._ I laughed –like– once when I was seven years old because I thought you called me bubbles, and eleven _goddamn_ years later you still haven't let it go."

The man rolled his eyes and tried to laugh again, but this seemed to really come as news to him.

"I'm sick of you calling me names," Oliver told him. "I'm sick of you flaunting this... _idea_ you have of me, like I'm some _toy._ And the moment I suddenly don't live up to it. The moment you see who your son really is, you tell me I'm wrong for it." Oliver was furious, worse than before, but it was odd. He felt relieved, too. Like what he'd imagine it would feel like for an innocent prisoner to finally break from their chains, or rather, how it would feel to see the first crack in them, to see that with just a little more effort, they might finally come free. Em had let go of his face now, and his hands were between Oliver's chest and his own stomach, and it was just about the first time in his four years on earth that he'd taken it upon himself to be absolutely still. Oliver took a breath. "How can you think you have any place to tell me I'm messing up my own life when yours is such a crap-hole. Look around you, Dad. You're a mess. You live alone. And nobody even cares anymore because you threw us all away like shit under your shoe!"

The man was going to say something but Oliver didn't let him.

"You know?" he grimaced, "when I was a kid I wanted to be just like you. _Dad._ I wanted to charm people with your smile, and I wanted your laugh. Because you've got one of those laughs that makes you feel like you're being left out if you don't laugh along to it, too. I wanted to be fearless and confident, and with my family. Never alone. _Just. Like. You..._ But that wasn't true. That isn't my dad at all. I only know it now... You're afraid of losing everything. You're so afraid that you isolate yourself. You brace for impact. You create as much distance as you can, too. For _this._ So that it doesn't hurt when you lose us. Because you know you will. You know you already _have._ Because you _are_ alone. And you are not fearless... And you lost your family a long time ago."

He saw the well in his father's eyes for the first time in his whole life, and another part of Oliver's heart broke.

"I'm going home, Dad."

The boy propped his brother higher on his side and left their father in the empty hospital room, and it was in that moment that Oliver finally came free of him.

* * *

 **Notes**

I didn't know Oliver had such an affliction to zebra...

Tell me what you thought of this one x)

 **PART 3 COMING SOON**

As always,  
Happy reading : _)_


	18. Part 3: Holy Shit

**DarthGranola** Thank you! x

 **the walking shadow** Thank you so much! Ily!

 **WyattsRattyShoes** ThanK you, my friend!

 **CodeName A. N. D. Y your ID is always very odd for me to write out because I make so many typos and I don't know whyyyy, but I will do it right because duhhh.** Yeah, I was gonna write out what he said to Carl but I started it and then deleted it because holy fuck I'm not ready for that shit even if I'm writing it. Yeah, there will be a coda for Oliver and his pa. I'm not sure when but I can't end this with them hating each other. Thank you for the support, beautiful. I will try my best! Thank you so much!

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Yet again, your love for that boy astounds me xD He's definitely okay in this chapter x promise.

* * *

 **"ILYSB" by Lany  
 _(link to playlist in bottom of my profile)_**

* * *

 **Friendly warning: Just... idk... a bit of shameless Caliver romance for the lovely hormonal ones amongst y'all? Yup. (this is probs just clickbait but whatevs)**

* * *

"Do, uh. Do you want a beer or somethin'?" Carl asked.

"Oh," Oliver said, "uh, yeah. Sure."

"Actually," Carl scrunched his nose. "I don't know why I said that. We don't have any."

Oliver laughed quietly. "It's okay – I don't even want any."

Carl smiled awkwardly and looked out over the flower bed; Alstroemeria, Oliver was pretty sure. Flow-ey and soft and small. It was dark in the garden, so everything was lit by the shine of the moon and if they looked over the fence they could see the glow of a nearby mall, all the bright swelling blues and oranges advertising to passing drivers, so bright they were hiding the stars. They weren't in King County. They were at Lori's house in Macon.

It had taken a while to convince Oliver to come. At the time, over the phone, Oliver was still on his way home. He'd called Carl to see if he'd gotten home okay, since he'd gone straight there unlike Oliver and Em who'd gone back to the cabin to pack and say goodbye to Enid (and argue with but mostly ignore his father). The two brothers were sharing a sandwich on a wall opposite the store they'd bought it from, and Carl asked Oliver if he wanted to spend a few days at his mom's, and when he told Oliver that he wanted him to stay for his birthday in a few days, Oliver didn't have a reason not to go.

Oliver had arrived a few minutes ago. It was almost five AM in the morning. Why they had to meet at this time so often was a complete mystery to them both. Oliver had gotten home late. He'd tucked Em into bed and told his mom he'd call in the morning. His father hadn't said anything to her. Oliver didn't know if he would. Oliver didn't know if he himself would... _could._ He couldn't bear it if she...

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Carl asked, and he was holding Oliver's hand on the swing in the back garden, which was _full_ of life; bird houses, flowers, growing fruit and vegetables. Carl laughed earlier when Oliver had said it was inspiring. It seemed that working with Dale had made Oliver quite a garden enthusiast.

"Not really," he answered. Everybody was still asleep inside. "Do you?"

Carl looked at him, squinted. "Kinda."

Oliver sighed.

"But we don't have to," Carl told him.

Oliver shook his head, said, "I don't think I'm talking to him anymore. At all."

"But... he's your dad."

"He called me a cock hungry faggot," Oliver said. Carl winced. Oliver rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrists.

Both had had little sleep as of late. Oliver almost felt drunk. It was dangerous, driving from home. To stop from falling asleep Oliver wound down all the windows and put Gorillaz on full blast from his stereo, and he screamed the lyrics to _Kids With Guns_ so loud that at a red light a guy shouted from the side walk asking if he was alright. Oliver sort of just startled and shouted to him, _"_ _MY DAD'S AN ASSHOLE!"_ and the guy cheered and shouted back, _"_ _MINE, TOO, HOMEY!"_

"God, I could'a hit him," Oliver said through his fingers. "I was going to. Grabbed him, but... I was so mad... If I'd hit him I would've..."

"I'm sorry."

Oliver nodded slowly, but rather the way you nod to fully take in something rather than to agree. "You don't need to be," he said, meant it. "What happened; it was always gonna happen. To be honest I called him worse."

"What did you call him?"

"The truth," he said. "I told him what he was. And he had nothing to say to me, because I got through to him. After all these years all I had to do was realise... that I'm... better than him." Oliver frowned, tried to really think what that meant, because he said it not to brag or gloat or fool himself. But to just accept it. . . "I – I'm _trying..._ to fix my mistakes and be a good person... And, it's hard, sometimes, but at least I am trying."

Carl pulled his arm up and around Oliver's shoulders, and Oliver leant into him, tucked his head into the crook of his neck. Oliver saw that he had grass stains on his knees and he wasn't sure when or why or how they got there.

"You told them I was coming, right?" Oliver asked. Carl pursed his lips and shook his head. Oliver sat up, stared. " _Carl._ "

Carl shrugged goofily. "I said a friend was coming over. I just... didn't say when. Or who." Oliver's eyes widened. "Mom never asked."

"What if what happened at the hospital happens with–"

"Don't go there," Carl said gently, and he touched Oliver's hand when he started panicking, slipping his fingers under his palm. "I'll be like you. I'll be brave."

Oliver shook his head. "I'm not brave... Carl, I'm – I'm afraid."

"I don't think it's possible to be brave unless you are, at least a little," Carl admitted. "If you're not afraid then I'm pretty sure you're just stupid."

"Maybe I am."

"You're not stupid, Oliver." Carl smiled at how embarrassed and flattered Oliver looked all of a sudden. He watched him dip his head, jut out his under-bite, widen his eyes in his efforts not to smile back.

"Thanks," he mumbled, " _sap_."

Carl grinned. It made Oliver shiver.

"Cold?"

"M-hm," Oliver lied, shivered again, mentally held down his arms to stop them from wrapping around the boy in front of him like a predatory snake.

"Wanna go inside?"

A nod. "I'm sleeping on the couch, right?"

That had been what Carl had said on the phone, but when he stood up and tangled their thumbs, he said, "Y'cool with sleeping with me?" and Oliver's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Carl rolled his eyes, pulled. "Not like _that,_ dirt brain."

"No, it's just what if your mom comes to wake you?"

"Oliver, we're really not sleeping together –yet," Carl said, and his face dropped when he'd stumbled over the last word. He looked awkward, and Oliver tried not to look goofy and nervous, too, but he failed at it pretty miserably. Carl cleared his throat. "She'll probably just knock on my door anyway. But I usually wake up pretty early."

Oliver was still a little taken away by the _'_ _–_ _yet',_ so instead of asking why, like Carl was expecting, he just nodded vacantly and followed Carl to the front of the house. Quietly, they went in and up to Carl's room. They had to keep the lights out, so for the most part Oliver just tried not to trip while Carl led him through. Carl flipped on the lamp on his shelf when they were both safe inside his bedroom, lighting up the room in a goldish glow. Oliver rubbed his eyes while they adjusted to the light, and then he saw Carl's bedroom...

"Not like King County, huh," Carl said, grinning. Oliver's mouth was wide open.

"Holy shit..."

Carl wondered if _Holy shit_ was an upgraded _Whoa..._. Either way, he was flattered. Ridiculously. You see, Lori and Shane had only moved in together earlier the year before, and so Carl had had a clean slate to make his own room really _his own room._ Back home in King County, he'd filled it with his childhood, all the efforts he'd made in _trying to be what was expected of him_ that had been necessary his whole life. But in Macon, a place where nobody really knew him, a place that the only two people who did where the only two people in the world that were supposed to owe him everything. . . it meant that Carl didn't have to hide his personality away in boxes under his bed or in his closet.

The room was a nice size, not too big and not too small. An actual easel sat in the corner with nothing but a post-it note on it that said: _MAKE SOMETHING, SHIT FACE!_ on it, and on the wall beside his bed there were home-made shelves the shape of square speech bubbles, filled mostly with a few books and comics and video games and random objects that he and Judith had found on walks like feathers and rocks and dead dried up flowers and leaves. One shelf had a plant that looked like a tiny willow tree. The bed had a grey and blue sheet and a purple pillow. The desk had stains all over it from all the chalk and ink and paint it'd been de-faced with, but it was currently a resting place for all of the stuff Carl still hadn't unpacked yet. Carl also had one of those protruding windowsills, and it had a brown and green beanie bag up there that had ink smudges. Almost everything had ink smudges, actually, but in such a way it looked nice. If any were within reach Oliver couldn't help but run his thumb across them. But Oliver wasn't really looking at the furniture anymore. He was looking at the walls.

Carl went and slumped across his bed while Oliver spent a few minutes gawking. In truth, Carl liked it; watching him marvel at what he'd created, what he was... _who_ he was. But it was odd. Carl felt the same way when he looked at Oliver. Like he wanted to see and understand every corner of him. When Carl realised his mind was wondering he blinked away the Oliver in his vision and looked at where he was looking. It was the wall opposite the bed that had a whole suburb drawn across a section of it. Well, the start of a suburb at least. Carl hadn't finished it yet, but worked on it whenever he had the time or the motivation. It was sort of his own version of therapy. The small community was drawn mostly from ink, which was his favourite kind of drawing method. The marks curved and turned and stretched, flicking at the end of each stroke like he'd never been able to help and had only just recently started to like about his drawing style. The ink weaved through streets and back allies and ponds and footpaths, and around the edge of the suburb was a tall, thick, iron beam wall. Carl had recently been pretty into apocalyptic themes, and so the grass was overgrown and the buildings outside were burnt and the cars were run down and rusty, and for good measure he'd drawn a few un-dead corpses banging against the walls on the outside. But on the inside, the suburb was alive. If you looked closely you could see the stories inside it. Like the lady walking her dog. Or the man shooting down at the dead-heads at the gates. Or the couple kissing behind the side of a house. Or the priest hosting a prayer circle beside the solar panels. Or the teenage girl sneaking up and over the wall on the East side. Carl's favourite was the almost unnoticeable drawing of Deadpool peeping in on somebody looking at a porn centrefold, but luckily Oliver didn't notice it.

Next, Oliver looked at the wall opposite the window. It was covered in hung up paintings, all placed in neat but odd places against the wall. They weren't Carl's, Oliver could tell; not messy-perfect enough. They were just a collection of paintings by a signature drawn as a pistol rather than a name. The paintings were portraits of the same girl. All fourteen of them. One face, just in different ways. One was her face made of shaded dots; thousands of tiny circles covering the whole canvas like one of those old-fashioned pop-art comic strips. Another was a sketch. The third was water colour, spilling outward like someone had blown on it before it'd dried. Fourth, ink. Another was an elegant cartoon. One was of her whole face hollowed out with a forest painted where her features should've been.

"I got them at a garage sale a few years back after the artist, some old guy, died of a stroke. His family were selling all his stuff for really cheap. She was the only person he ever painted."

"Why?" Oliver whispered, _to_ her, it seemed, staring and staring and staring like she might've been talking back to him.

"I dunno," Carl said, whispered it.

"You didn't ask when you bought them?" Oliver asked curiously.

"Well, they said they didn't know who she was or why he painted her. Just that one Fall he did. Locked himself in the garage and didn't come out 'til they were finished. He didn't even have a name for her. Just... _the girl._ " Carl paused, frowned into his comforter. "When the lady asked how many I'd like I felt bad getting just one, like – like it wasn't right to separate them or something –I dunno– like she wasn't _her_ unless they all stayed together. So I just bought'm all for ten dollars, took'm home and hid them in my closet."

Oliver smiled, went over and sat on the part of bed not covered in Carl's limbs, kept looking at the girl.

"They're beautiful."

Carl knew what he meant. It's hard to explain. The art was beautiful, but the girl wasn't _beautiful_ in the way most girls are _supposed_ to be beautiful, with long hair and flawless skin and soft, feminine, symmetrical features. She was just a girl, like every girl is, really. She had dark skin and freckles and an awkward nose and spots and messy black hair and a bored expression. Imperfect. But she was all of that in such a way it _made_ her perfect. Beautiful. It _made_ you want to know her story, what cereal she liked best or if she liked to sleep curled up in a ball or stretched out across the whole bed instead.

"So, what're you doing for your birthday?"

"Sophia'n Duane're coming up here the day after. I think we're just going to the movies or something."

"Aren't you doing anything on the day?"

Carl shrugged. "Was just gonna hang with Mom and Judy I guess." He smiled. "It's no big deal."

"It's your eighteenth," Oliver said. "It's totally a big deal."

"What did you do?"

Oliver smirked, "Penelope and I spent the whole day at this massive comic book store in D.C."

Carl smiled. "I dunno. I'm kinda cool with not doing anything. Plus, you're here. That's something."

Oliver patted Carl's shoulder, grunted while he stood. "I'm gonna get dressed."

Carl hid his face under his pillow, said, "You can go in my closet."

"Is it a walk in?" Oliver asked, going over to it and touching the handles. Carl shook his head no. Oliver slid the door open and stepped inside anyway. "Cool."

"It's a good place to read." Carl meant to say _hide._ "Or draw."

"Isn't it a little small?" Oliver asked, picturing the younger boy curled up on the floor in there with a lamp and a sketchbook.

"Maybe," Carl admitted, then grinned. . . "but I'm used to being in the closet."

Oliver snickered. "Me, too, man. Me, too."

* * *

"Hey."

A nudge at Oliver's shoulder. It was early, he knew.

"Wake up."

" _Ughh,_ " he said into the pillow.

"You can't miss this. It's my favourite part."

Oliver groaned again, opened his eyes. Carl was sat up and Oliver realised it had been his foot that he'd been nudging him with. He was looking at the window. Oliver looked, too, but only saw the glow of the morning sun soon to come over the tree-line in front of the house. The window was open, and they could hear the occasional car driving by.

"It's not here yet," Carl said, shivered because the wall was cold. The house wouldn't start getting warm for a while yet. It was only six AM, by Lizzie's watch. Oliver had forgotten that this time even existed. "Just wait a few more minutes for it to happen."

Oliver pulled himself up to join him against the wall. He shivered, too. "It's only been –like– an hour since we fell asleep."

"I know," Carl said, and their legs crossed at the shins automatically. "But it's cool. I swear."

Oliver leant against him, groaned and tucked his hands under Carl's shirt to keep them warm like it was a usual affair that happened between the two. It became apparent to Carl that Oliver was rather tactile when he was sleepy. When they both curled up under the single bed together those few hours before, they kept a few inches gap between each other for a while, but when they started drifting off Carl woke up to Oliver wiggling himself between his arms, crossing their legs at the knees, and at first Carl wasn't really sure what to do, but he felt Oliver's nose against his collarbones and his arm slung around him, his other between their chests, and Carl realised he didn't really need to do anything at all.

Now, too, Carl simply let Oliver burrow his nose into his ribcage. Sophia was right; he _was_ kind of like a cat. Though at the time she'd told that to Carl he'd almost glowed green in his efforts to pretend he thought her crush on him was a good thing.

"You just gotta wait," Carl whispered. "It'll happen."

Oliver moaned into his front. Carl just smiled. Oliver looked up at him, frowned. . .

"Are you high?"

" _No,_ " Carl said.

"I'm starting to think you should be."

"It's on our bucket list," Carl said, shrugging. "Take a drug."

Oliver sat up and reached for his jeans. "Okay, so, I thought you'd say that."

Carl suddenly felt nervous. "Oliver?"

"I stole this joint from Pat a while ago."

Carl laughed, and his eyes widened when Oliver presented the rollie; a little squished, he knew, but still... usable? _Is that even the right term?_ "Why did you steal it?"

Oliver's eyes shifted. "He told me Batman didn't count as a real superhero."

Carl scoffed. "You're incredible."

Oliver smiled, but he scratched his forehead, inhaled and said, "But, I was also thinking that I'm not really sure I want to get high anyway."

"Why'd you bring it?" Carl asked accusingly.

"Mom was in the middle of Spring Cleaning when I got home," he answered. "She said she's doing the bedrooms next so I had to take it or she'd find it and go a-wol."

"So..." Carl said. "Are we gonna, or not?"

Oliver thought, then said, "Do you have a lighter?"

"No."

"Then it's settled. We won't," Oliver said, and Carl didn't want to admit that he was at least a little relieved. Oliver pocketed the spliff. Then pulled out his inhaler. "But we'll still tick it off our bucket list."

"With your _inhaler_?"

Oliver nodded, grinned. "Ventolin's a drug. You said _Take a drug._ You didn't specify which kind."

"You're good at finding loop-holes," Carl said. Oliver grinned proudly. Then took a puff of his inhaler, handed it to Carl. "Is it safe?"

"Dude," Oliver said in one of the only times in his life. "You were about to smoke weed."

"Fine," Carl grumbled, snatching the medication and quickly taking a puff. It made him grimace and roll his tongue around in his mouth, making noises as he tried to get rid of the taste. "Gross."

Oliver shrugged. "Used to it."

Carl handed it back, then climbed off of the bed and found the bucket list in his backpack on the desk. When he came back they went about crossing off their achievements. Though, Oliver wasn't sure how he felt about crossing off number four. _Save a life._

"You saved Em," Carl said.

"By almost killing him in the process."

He took Oliver's face in his palms and pressed their foreheads. . . "Oliver... You. Saved. Em."

Oliver smiled, rolled his eyes, crossed it off. "Maybe I should've punched my dad. Then I could cross off number six."

Carl picked up the bucket list, scribbled in, _'_ _CHOOSE NOT TO'_ in the small gap above number six and said, "I think this is better."

Oliver smiled, crossed it off, thanked him with a kiss that seemed to hold onto his bottom lip longer than usual. "Oh, here, number nine. God."

"Oh yeah, _see something you weren't supposed to,_ bet Enid wasn't happy about that."

Oliver was about to nod, but then realised: "She didn't seem to care once the whole screaming part was over."

Carl laughed. A part of him felt like he should be jealous, but he pushed it away and reminded himself it wasn't necessary. Instead, he said, "You should cross of twenty-one, too."

Oliver read. "Jump out of a moving vehicle? Why?"

"Enid told me what happened when you saw the ambulance. How you threw yourself out of your car so fast she had to yank up the handbrake before the car rolled into the fence. If that isn't jumping out of a moving vehicle, I don't know what is."

"I forgot about that," Oliver said, smirking, realising why he had the grass stains on his knees.

Carl read through, pointed, "What about twenty-five?"

" _Get Oliver out of bed without Taco Bell bribery,_ " Oliver read, then cocked an eyebrow, looked at the sheets. "But I'm not out of bed yet."

Carl rolled his eyes, "Fine."

The upgraded bucket list was as followed:

 _1\. GO AT LEAST A STATE AWAY FROM HOME._ _ **x**_ _  
2\. PAINT SOMETHING._ _ **X  
**_ _3\. SAY SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO._ _ **X  
**_ _4\. SAVE A LIFE._ _ **x  
**_ _5\. DO ANYTHING INVOLVING CORN. OR PUDDING.  
_ _6\. CHOOSE NOT TO PUNCH SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT._ _ **x  
**_ _7\. GET DRUNK._ _ **X  
**_ _8\. STAY UP ALL NIGHT. (ON TUMBLR)  
_ _9\. SEE SOMETHING YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO._ _ **x  
**_ _10\. CAMP IN A TENT._ _ **X  
**_ _11\. SURVIVE SOMETHING THAT SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU.  
_ _12\. TAKE A DRUG._ _ **x  
**_ _13\. JUMP OFF A CLIFF._ _ **X  
**_ _14\. SEE A CONCERT.  
_ _15\. SAY SOMETHING IMPORTANT._ _ **X  
**_ _16\. STEAL SOMETHING._ _ **X  
**_ _17\. HAVE A MOVIE MARATHON.  
_ _18\. GO FISHING. (CATCH AT LEAST ONE FISH)  
_ _19\. GET LOST._ _ **X  
**_ _20\. SAY YES TO SOMETHING YOU'RE AFRAID OF. (That won't result in substantial injury or death or kidnap.)  
_ _21\. JUMP OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE._ _ **x  
**_ _22\. COOK A MEAL.  
_ _23\. Find the best pizza place._ _ **X  
**_ _24\. Keep A PROMISE.  
_ _25\. GET OLIVER OUT OF BED WITHOUT TACO BELL BRIBERY.  
_ _26\. MAKE TACO THURSDAY A THING.  
_ _27\. READ HIS FAVORITE BOOK.  
_ _28\. CUSS._ _ **xxxxxxxx  
**_ _29\. KISS HIM AGAIN._ _ **X**_

Oliver was staring at the roughed up piece of paper when Carl tapped his shoulder. "Oliver," he whispered. "It's happening."

Oliver looked up. He'd been frowning, but suddenly his expression dropped when he saw the rainbow that had scattered across Carl's bedroom; tiny shards of colour, dotted and shimmering along the walls, on his desk, on books, his bedsheets, on the floor and shelves. All reflecting from the glass ornament that sat in Carl's bedroom window. It had taken Carl days to position it so perfectly in it's exact place so that the colours would spread across his whole bedroom for almost exactly two minutes every morning. He'd never shown it to anybody. Not even his mom. But this was why he woke up early. To have these two minutes of colour in every day he spent here. . .

"Whoa..." Oliver said.

Carl inhaled, swore to God there wasn't another word in Oliver's vocabulary that could send such a rush of adrenaline through his body like this. Like he was catching fire. Oliver turned his head and a whole rainbow shone right across his face, turned the golden flecks in his left eye green and orange and blue. He looked like Carl's art project. All of a sudden. But right in front of him, living and breathing and _real._ Carl touched Oliver's cheek. Couldn't help it. His thumbnail went violet. Oliver saw it and smiled. When he looked at Carl. A sparkle of indigo had given his blue eyes embers, like fireworks.

No more words were exchanged, and who moved first was not what was important. What was important was that neither boy was sure there was anywhere on Earth he wanted to be other than where he was right now, in this moment.

Carl's back was spread across his bed and Oliver was bent over him with his knees hugged around his hips, and this was how they spent the most of their morning together. Both were acutely aware of what was happening in their pyjama pants, and their heartbeats were so fast they could hear them _._ Carl could feel each beat when he slipped his hands under Oliver's T-shirt, pounding through palm and skin and flesh and ribcage, the very cartilage shaking inside of him. He thought of the way their bodies felt like they were going to explode against each other and was afraid that his own heart would vibrate right out of his skin. But it didn't. It just felt really good and he wasn't quite sure how to cope with it. The two minutes of colour had ended a long time ago before the individual points came when each boy went rigid and their hands drew uncontrollable fists into shoulder-blades or bed sheets. For the other's sake, they acted like they hadn't noticed on both occasions, and the kissing finally slowed and softened until it stopped all together, and for a few minutes they just stayed where they were, wrapped around each other and taken off guard and exhausted but in the strangest and most exhilarating way they'd ever felt before.

"Whoa..." Oliver panted, embarrassed.

Carl was embarrassed, too, but he laughed into Oliver's shoulder, drowsy and slow and awkward. Oliver took a breath and was about to actually say something, probably apologise, or make some lame innuendo like, _I didn't see that coming,_ and Carl wouldn't be able to stop laughing for anything, but Oliver ended up just kissing his jawline.

 _I love you,_ he thought, _badly_ _and crazily and stupidly,_ and Carl brought his arms up and held him, thinking, _You, too..._

Someone knocked.

Oliver threw himself up and collapsed to his back beside the frozen boy. In the same moment, Carl sat up, too –actually, he'd moved so fast that it was more likely _him_ that'd thrown Oliver off.

"M-Mom!" he gasped. "Don't come in."

"Baby," his mom said through the door. She had a soft, low, Southern accent. Oliver remembered her face from the lady picking her son up at camp. "I'm makin' breakfast. Bring Judy down."

"'Kay." Carl ran his fingers through his hair. It was kind of sweaty. He grimaced and took a deep breath to settle how fast he was panting. "Be right there, Mom," he said, then whispered to Oliver, "I gotta... uh..." but couldn't think how to finish the sentence without his cheeks melting, and so, when Lori went downstairs, Carl left to head to the bathroom without another word.

Oliver was still sprawled across the bed, feeling high and dizzy, and he stared up at the ceiling fairly blankly for a moment. Until he grinned. Grinned so broad his cheeks started to ache after a while. Quickly, he dressed himself, stuffed his used (and rather soiled) boxers into a side pocket of his backpack, imagined the sign blinking above the zipper reading, _DON'T EVER OPEN. EVER. EVEREVEREVEREVER._

"I think we can cross off number twenty-five now," Carl mumbled when he returned. "You're out of bed, and there's no Taco Bell in sight."

Oliver chuckled, grabbed the bucket list and crossed it off. "I thought you'd do it with something more like... I don't know, bacon. Not..."

"Climax," Carl said for him, but pretended he hadn't. "You can use the shower or whatever. I gotta go take Judy down. I'll tell Mom you're here."

"What if she doesn't want guests?"

Carl didn't answer, instead he knelt in front of Oliver, stared at him and yelled, "Mooooom?"

"Yeah?" she called back across the household. Oliver heard sizzling. Smelt waffles. Thought about how fast his heart was suddenly pounding.

"Oliver slept over!" Carl told her, turning his head the littlest bit but not enough to stop watching Oliver's eyes widen. "Is it cool if he stays a few days?"

There was only a two or three second pause before she said, "Sure!" back.

Oliver was astounded, ridiculously. "Wait, she knows who I am?"

"Yeah," Carl nodded casually, kissed him quickly then got up and made for the door to go get Judy. Oliver couldn't help the grin on his face, but dropped it when Carl poked his head back into the door and said, "You should get in the shower before she comes up to meet you... Sticky substances and all."

"Fuck off," Oliver muttered, and thought Carl wouldn't hear it when he added, "your fault," at the end. But he did hear it. . .

"You're welcome."

* * *

 **From:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:08am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Are you alright?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:29am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Sorry, I was in the shower. Yes. I'm alright. Very alright. Em's home and safe and I'm at Carl's mom's house. Are you alright?

* * *

 **From:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:30am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Why are you at his house? Did everything go okay with your mom? And yeah, I'm fine. Rough morning but I'm cool.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:31am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

I'm just staying a few days, and yeah, everything with Mom is okay. Dad didn't talk to her about it all. But I will. One day. You sure you're cool? I can call, if you want?

* * *

 **From:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:33am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Good. And no, I'm good x thanks though. JSS, right?

* * *

 **From:** _ **IAMNOTTRYINGTOBEMEAN  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **8** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 07:34am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

Yep.

Just survive somehow.

* * *

Oliver looked awkward and nervous when he turned into the kitchen, and so was a little taken off guard when forty-two pounds of Judith attached herself to his whole left leg. He staggered, grunted, "Judy..."

"Hey, man," Carl smiled.

"What is it about your sister and legs?" Oliver asked, tried to pull her off but she stuck like glue. Carl laughed, didn't try to help, just looked back to his crossword puzzle, twirling a ball-point pen between his fingers. Oliver didn't know Carl did crossword puzzles.

"Mornin', Oliver."

Oliver looked up and saw Lori for the first time in three years. "Morning, ma'am." Judith buried her face into his knee cap and hummed. Didn't say a word. Oliver laughed nervously. His hair was still wet and it flicked out in every direction. "Uh, sorry. Um, she's..."

"Here." Lori helped detach Judith from him. "It's great to actually meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh." Oliver looked a little confused, since he and Carl hadn't even been talking to each other for almost a month before five days ago. Carl gave him a, _Just go with it... please?_ look.

"Take a seat if you want," Lori smiled, setting her daughter into the high chair. "I'm makin' waffles. Well, tryin' to, at least." Even though Oliver had heard about her pancakes, he nodded.

"Where's Shane?" Carl asked then, handing Judith her juice.

"He had to go into the station early," she answered.

"Another kitten up a tree?" Carl said under his breath. Oliver couldn't tell if he was being bitter or making a joke. Lori finished making the last few waffles so she came over and served them between them, and they went about topping them with syrup and Nutella.

"You know he's never had to do that, right?" she asked her son. "But don't worry. He'll be back for your birthday." Carl's eyebrows jumped under his fringe as if to say, _I don't really care either way,_ or maybe it was a, _Oh, cool,_ and he tucked his pen behind his ear. Birthday aside, Oliver wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about anymore. Lori noticed, said, "Shane's a fireman. And actually, it's a work _event_ he's going to. That one I told you about, Carl?"

"With the awards," Carl affirmed. "And the _free food._ "

"Yeah," she said, smirked. "He won't be home until tomorrow."

"I thought he was in the police," Oliver said.

"He used to work with Dad, but..." Carl hesitated, glanced at his mother and saw the way she froze up for a second when she went to sit. "Now he's working here in the fire department," he finished humanely.

"Cool," Oliver said. Carl saw the questions behind his eyes, looked away and ate his waffles.

"So, tell me about yourself, Oliver?" Lori said.

 _Shit._

"Oh," he said, "well, there's not really much to say." _Apart from the fact that your son and I are dating. Or... uh... somethinging._ "What would you like to know?"

"You're goin' to college, right?"

"Yeah, I applied. Haven't heard back yet."

"Carl either," she said, scrunched her nose. "Scary, huh, all that stuff."

"Kinda." _Understatement of the century._

"Where did you apply?"

"Oh, uh, some Medicine course in South Carolina..." Then Oliver hesitated, said the next confession through his mouthful. "And a Music course in Ohio." Oliver startled when Carl dropped his fork.

"Wow, that's great," Lori said.

"Yeah," Oliver said, glanced at Carl and saw the awe in his expression. "Haven't... told anybody except Enid, and, you guys."

Lori frowned then. . . "Why?"

Oliver shrugged, tried to change subject: "These're great waffles."

"Wait, Oliver." It was Carl who'd said it. Oliver nodded at his plate, and so didn't see that Carl was smiling. "Why didn't you ever say so?"

Again, Oliver shrugged. "It's just kinda dumb."

"I didn't know you even wanted to do something like that. You know, for real. I've heard you play but..." Carl stopped when Oliver shrugged again, knew he was rambling and blushing and tried not to smile. "That's awesome, man."

Oliver looked up then, smiled, scratched his head. "Thanks. What about you though, with that Art college in New York." Carl had mentioned it a few months ago, and so he was a little astonished Oliver even remembered. Like Oliver had, Carl shrugged. Oliver grinned. It seemed that both boys were in the same boat, and so, it seemed there wasn't really anything else to say about it.

"Ogh," Carl said a while later with a mouthful of waffle. "You're meahhnt to cahll Rosa."

"Ah, right," Oliver said, got up, sat down again. "Uh, ma'am, may I be excused for a sec?"

"Sure," Lori said, was a little taken aback. Carl smirked into his breakfast, glanced at Oliver as he went out the back door to make the call.

"You're on a first name basis with his mom?" Lori said, and Carl stopped grinning at Oliver's silhouette through the window.

"What?"

"Rosa," she said. "His mom, right?"

"Yeah," Carl said. "I kinda met her first –well, no, I mean I met her first this year. But I met Oliver three years ago."

Lori frowned, handed Judy her juice back when she threw it at the table. "I thought he only moved here a few months ago."

"He did," Carl said. "But he went to the twenty-twelve soccer camp."

Lori took a second to remember, then looked at Oliver's silhouette, heard him talking to his mom about books. . . "Oh... The _quiet boy._ I remember."

"Yeah."

"You were so sad," she said after a moment, whining it. "You cried the whole way home."

"Mom," Carl winced. "Stop." She smirked evilly. " _Don't_ tell him about that."

Her smirk grew when Oliver finished his call and headed back inside.

" _Momdon't,_ " Carl warned quickly.

"Oliver," Lori said over him, "would you like anymore breakfast?"

"No, ma'am," he said as he sat and finished the last few bites. "Thank you."

She grinned at him. Carl knew why. She was suddenly reciting all the things he'd told her about Oliver when he came back from camp and all the things he'd said about him since they'd become friends here, comparing it all to make the boy sat in front of her into something she almost knew like an old family friend. She followed the waves in his fringe that stuck out under his beanie and the familiar but long since heard phrase _gravity defying_ came to mind, and she glanced at his eyes and saw the _cool gold bits,_ and then the purse in his lips that Carl said meant he was nervous. Though Oliver didn't know she was thinking all this, and so he was awkward and quiet and pulled at his beanie –just like Carl said.

Lori looked at her son again, grinned madly. Carl glared at her. She threw her hands up in surrender and when he finished his plate she told him to do the dishes. Oliver got up, too, and helped him dry.

It turns out that when you only sleep for a few hours in over a day, you end up feeling pretty tired. The boys had fallen asleep watching TV with Judith. Lori walked into the room to get her and didn't expect to see Oliver sprawled across the couch with the back of his head against her son's stomach. Neither was she expecting to see Carl tucked behind him with his own face pressed into Oliver's spine. She found it funny, and also a little cute. Judith had been knelt in front of them playing with Oliver's fringe so the woman picked the little girl up and re-sat Oliver's beanie for him –which Judith must've pulled off before, and when she went back into the living room she smirked when she saw that her son had subconsciously wrapped his arm around his friend. She thought about teasing him about it when they woke up, but decided against it and switched off the TV instead. Disney Channel had been playing a re-run of That's so Raven. In truth the boys had been watching it more than Judith. Then Lori left the boys to their sleeping, making a mental note to herself to tell her son not to stay up reading comics like she'd assumed was the reason for their fatigue.

* * *

Oliver woke up at around 2:30PM, by the clock ticking away on the wall. For a second he thought he was back in the hospital, and then for another second he also thought he was a _patient_ in a hospital. He felt an odd imaginary sting just under his left collarbone and spent a few minutes remembering how to move again, but once he did –realising that he wasn't actually in pain at all, he got up and looked around the house for anybody.

The radio was on in the kitchen playing Panic! at the Disco. Oliver hummed the song and once he saw that nobody was outside he headed upstairs. It was hot outside. The type of weather that required copious amounts of sun screen. The type of weather Oliver wished he could take his shirt off in but knew he had too many marks to hide to do so. He found Judith napping in her bedroom, and then found Carl in his own room, knelt on the floor sketching away inside his suburb. Oliver had mentioned earlier that it reminded him of the fancy neighbourhood Ron lived in –as once he'd been cool enough to let Oliver and Enid go to his house for a day. It was weird, the gated community was only a twenty minute drive from Lorton, and Oliver felt nostalgic being there; so close to old home but never quite able to go back there. But the good thing was that Patrick, who was living in the same town, was able to take them all out for supper, and it was one of those unexpectedly perfect days that happen every once in a while and you only realise it when it's over. Anyway, because of all that, Carl decided to call his imaginary community Alexandria.

He looked up and smiled as Oliver took a seat next to him, crossing his legs. He had a cow-lick. Actually, he had several. Carl reached over and made a small attempt at flattening some of them for him, only he sort of ended up just stroking the side of his head a few times until Oliver leant forward and pressed his forehead to his collarbones. He groaned tiredly.

"Mom's out doing some errands across town," Carl said, turned back to the wall and drew in a weed sticking out of a gutter on the edge of a side walk. Oliver sat up and watched him draw two woman crossing a street a few blocks away. They were laughing. One woman had blonde hair and glasses and the other woman had dark hair up in two pony-tails _._ Oliver grinned when Carl drew them holding hands. Carl smirked, drew some writing into a wall, something about _In Or Memory,_ and then a list of squiggles Oliver presumed were names. "Judy'll wake up soon."

Oliver nodded, thought about asking Carl how he'd thought of all of this but he kept quiet, deciding it didn't really matter. Carl smiled. He thought it was sweet how it often took Oliver a few minutes to find his voice after going long enough without using it.

"I'm guessing we have about thirty minutes before she wakes up," he kept talking. "Forty if we're lucky... What do you want to do?" Oliver was quite happy just watching him draw. But he saw the smirk still tugging at the corner of Carl's lips, watched it. "Well... _I..._ " Carl went on, "was thinking we could get to making out a little more." Then shrugged. "But that's just me."

Another shrug, and he was about to say something else but Oliver tackled him, then let Carl climb on top of him and pulled him closer when he wasn't close enough. Carl chuckled, dropping his pen and managing to screw the ink pot closed before either of them knocked it over, struggling, because doing that and kissing became a little distracting when the kissing part felt so good.

"So you're on the same page?" he asked, and Oliver nodded into him. "Good." Things were getting pretty heated on the floor of Carl's bedroom before Oliver became distracted. He broke their kiss and stared at the wall.

"Wait," he said his first word since falling asleep. . . "Is that Deadpool?"

* * *

 **Notes**

I'M SORRY I'M JUST TOO EXCITED FOR DEADPOOL! This is all your fault, too, **AwkwardlyMeOli**. (superthanksbecauseDeadpool-andyouuu-areawesome) The girl on Carl's wall; I had her in my head looking kinda like Riley from the Last of Us. I adore her.

 _Just ignore the fact that in this Carl's born in June and in the regular fiction he's born in April. I'm bad at continuity. Sorry._

Thank you, **AGGXX5** , for the brave speech bit! You're brave, too!

And, **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding,** I'm not sure I'll ever forget about the cat thing.

 **Preview: A bit of birthday fluff, a bit of grocery shopping, some scary decisions, a bit of Terminus, and a bit of Shane.**

Tell me what you thought of this chapter :) thanks if you do! Thanks if you don't! Just, thanks for glancing at the letters and acknowledging their existence!

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _)_


	19. Part 3: I'm so Me

**the walking shadow** thanks! Yeah, she probably got a clue haha

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Idk I kind of still don't really like him, but I totally love him at the same time. idk. And thanks! Ily!

 **DarthGranola** BeST COMMENT EVER! My life is complete. Done. I've succeeded. Now I may go bYE.

 **AGGXX5** Oops, sorry, your comment was delayed by the guest review thingy! I didn't see it until you'd sent the other one. I'm sorry to hear that x feel free to message me any time you want. Lately I'm pretty busy with uni applications and trying not to lose my mind so it may take a few days but I WILL reply. xxx

* * *

 **"for him" by Troye Sivan**

* * *

 **Friendly warning: Possible triggers for self harm. Also mentions of infidelity.**

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: July** **9** **th** **2015  
Time: 11:17am  
Subject: GENITALIA**

I'm home again for the Summer and Lorton sucks without you.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: July** **9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 11:20am  
** **Subject: Uh...**

1.) I'm working on it.

2.) How's Scab?

3.) What was with the subject title?

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **9** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 11:20am  
** **Subject: (no subject)**

1.) Explain.  
2.) Admirably viscous.  
3.) It was click bait.

What are you up to today?

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: June** **9** **th** **2015  
Time: 11:22am  
Subject: (no subject)**

1.) I was gonna try to visit soon.  
2.) That's my cat.  
3.) Is it bad that I'm a little relieved?

It's Carl's birthday. We're just hanging out. I'm helping his mom, Lori, make a cake later while he goes out with Shane.

* * *

 **From:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **To:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **Date: June** **9** **th** **2015  
Time: 11:25am  
Subject: (no subject)**

Aw, cool! Wish him happy birthday.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **Nellhashercharacters  
**_ **Date: June** **9** **th** **2015  
Time: 11:26am  
Subject: (no subject)**

I will. Have a good one x

* * *

It was the second morning in Macon, Carl's birthday, and Lori wrote the boys a shopping list while she stayed home with Judith. Oliver had spoken to her before and had agreed to stall Carl for at least an hour so that she could get the birthday cake baked. The shopping list was as followed:

\- Eggs  
\- Sugar  
\- OJ  
\- Potatoes  
\- Cereal (your choice)  
\- Milk  
\- Bread  
\- Chocolate

The local store was near the Highway on the other side of the train station. It was in the centre of town, about, and so, since they walked, they had to cross the tracks. Carl had done it before, and because he might have been a little bit of an idiot, he never bothered to take the extra half mile walk to the crossing, instead just cut right across. Oliver hesitated, both out of genuine fear and the awareness of his stalling role. Beside Carl on the other side was a sign. It had been graffitied, and read:

 _TERMINUS  
THOSE WHO ARRIVE  
SURVIVE  
SANCTUARY FOR ALL  
COMMUNITY FOR ALL_

"It's just some urban legend," Carl said when he noticed Oliver looking at it. "About the train station here."

"How does it go?" Oliver asked, raising his voice a little for Carl to hear.

"Something about a group of good people turned bad. How –I'm not sure– the station was like a safe place. But, after a while bad stuff happened to them, so they kept luring people there, trapping them and takin' their things... and then eating them."

Oliver laughed. "Gross."

"Yep."

"But it's not true."

"No," Carl admitted. "It's just an abandoned train station. Pretty sure kids go there at night to smoke." A pigeon burst out of a tree above them and the boys watched it fly away, it's wings humming as it went. Carl squinted at it. Oliver smiled at him.

"Happy birthday."

It had to be the tenth time Oliver had said already. Every time it got quieter and quieter, until now, when Oliver was at the stage of simply whispering it, but Carl's smile grew bigger and bigger the more he did. Sometimes he even shook his head. Oliver had come to learn that Carl wasn't a big birthday celebrator –for his own, that is. Even early this morning when Oliver woke up and gave him his gift, Carl went bright red when Oliver started singing Happy Birthday to him, and so cut him off with quite a lot of kissing and touching –which had developed rather progressively in the last two days. The birthday gift was an Etch-A-Sketch, by the way. Pretty lame, Oliver knew, but 1. it was all he could afford since visiting his father had burned a whole right down to his underwear, and 2. Carl'd once stated that he used to be a pro at using them. His skill must've worn off though, because for thirty minutes that morning he spent twisting and erasing dials over and over again with no satisfaction. Oliver found it funny how red Carl cheeks could get when he was frustrated. But all in all Carl liked it.

"C'mon," Carl said.

"How do you know it's safe?"

"You look both ways," Carl answered. But Oliver didn't budge. It was fear now. They'd been stood talking too long. Stalling and train tracks were definitely a bad and very stupid mix. "Here," the younger said, steeping across the first track to stand between both lines. He crouched, pressed his palms to the iron beams, gestured Oliver to, too, and he did. "Feel anything?"

"No," Oliver said, thought about the tune of _Dumb Ways to Die_ and in his head added, _'Crouching to touch the railway tracks.'_

"Then we're good," Carl smiled, hooked Oliver's sleeve and quickly pulled him across. A few minutes later after they'd climbed the fence and found the footpath, they heard the train passing behind them. While Oliver turned and looked, Carl turned back, too, took his hand, pulled, and they went on their way. The store was a few streets after the end of the footpath. It had a green and white canopy outside and tall brick walls with an office on the second floor. There were quite a lot of people inside, so the boys tried to go about shopping quickly.

"Oliver, the milk is just over here."

"No, we should do it in order or we'll forget something."

"I can just go get it."

"We'll go back for it."

Carl narrowed his eyes, said, "You know you're only making it more difficult, right?"

Oliver frowned at him and fidgeted nervously. "It feels wrong if we do it out of order," he said. His hands came up and twitched against his biceps. Carl rolled his eyes, but relented. Shopping was a stressful endeavour for Oliver. It had to be done in a certain way or it wouldn't feel right to him, like making his bed and laying the table and studying. It wasn't Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Oliver knew, no matter how many people light heartedly told him it was. Oliver was just particular about some things. But today it was worse. Today Oliver had been struggling. In the shower it had taken too much effort not to turn the temperature up too high, and in the end he stopped short of twisting the dial only because Lori had knocked and asked him if he wanted cereal or toast.

So far, they'd gotten the eggs and the sugar and the orange juice, but next on the list was potatoes, and they were on the other end of the store. Oliver could see that the milk was just in the isle next to them. One large step over to it and he could just throw it in the basket. But the thought of skipping an item on the list well and truly freaked him out in a way that Carl didn't understand. But he could see the hairs on Oliver's arms standing on end, the twitch in his lips and the uncomfortable swallowing like he'd eaten something wrong. In truth, Carl found it worrying. He knew Oliver had a few... _complicated_ habits, but he didn't know he was neurotic.

"Before the milk we should get the potatoes and then the cereal _,_ " Oliver said, and turned towards the produce isle, hating himself because he could see the disturb in Carl's expression. "Sorry."

Carl had followed him. He still looked a little tense, and his hands were behind his back.

"Sorry," Oliver said again. Carl shrugged, chucked his chin to the next isle.

"Now it's the cereal," he said, and Oliver lead the way there. "Chocolate pillows or frosties?"

"I don't mind," Oliver said, shrugged.

"Chocolate pillows," Carl decided.

"Okay," Oliver said, dropping a box into the basket. "Now it's the mi–" He didn't finish his sentence, because that was when he saw what Carl was hiding behind him, because he presented it, holding the carton of semi-skimmed milk in front of him.

"Here," he said. "Took it when you weren't looking." In that single moment, Oliver both resented and loved him. Carl saw his pupils blow and his mouth fall open and his cheeks bunch in their fight against a smile.

Butterflies.

Both felt them.

"That's cold," Oliver said.

"I know," Carl replied casually, frowning and nodding, "it's chilled."

"I'm not talking about the milk, man," Oliver grumbled. Carl grinned and placed it in the basket.

"Bread next," he read out.

"Then it's the chocolate, right?" Oliver asked. Carl nodded. Oliver only went rigid for a second when Carl took his hand and tangled their fingers. "Uh. W-wait." Gently, Oliver pulled away. "P... People."

Carl didn't say anything. Didn't even look away from him. He simply took Oliver's hand back, very carefully. Oliver dipped his head, couldn't help but grin like an idiot and for a second had to remind himself that he didn't like PDA despite what genders were involved in it.

"W-what kind?" he mumbled.

"M&M's?"

Oliver grinned. "But not the peanuted ones."

"No," Carl agreed. "Not the peanutted ones."

They paid and walked back, both full shopping bags crackling in their left and right hands. Carl really felt safe in Macon, it seemed, because even when they were going to walk past a crowd of teenagers neither of them knew, he took Oliver's hand again and acted like he hadn't thought anything of it, and the two kept walking without anything more than a glance in their direction. Being himself seemed to stretch further than just Carl's bedroom. Oliver had to admit, he liked Macon-Carl. In fact, he liked King-County-Carl, too, and Artist-Carl, and all the variations of Carl there were. They got out of the town and past the footpath, stopped at the iron beam train tracks and looked both ways.

Nothing.

Carl put down his shopping bag and placed his hand over the metal. For a moment, he couldn't feel anything, and he almost stood up and nodded for them to go ahead. But then just as he was about to pull his hand away he felt it against his finger tips. It vibrated softly, almost un-noticeably, and then got stronger, until the iron beam practically shook under Carl's palm and he quickly stood up and stepped back.

"Is there one coming?" Oliver asked. Carl nodded and took his hand again, and the two took their shopping bags and stood off on the bank.

In truth, they probably could've still gotten away with crossing, but they both weren't dumb enough. There used to be a train track in Lorton and Patrick used to scare Oliver with horror stories about it. Though watching a train pass was always exciting so they didn't mind the delay while they sat on the bank together. A few seconds passed before the they saw the Auto train heading most likely somewhere in Florida. It rolled along the tracks, loud and unstoppable, and then tore past with an ear rattling _CLACK-A-CLACK-A-CLACK-A-CLACK-A!_ as it went, making so much gust that Oliver had to grab hold of his beanie, and Carl held onto the shopping bags before they blew away or got sucked under the wheels. Oliver watched the windows as they passed, squinting and trying to take in all the hundreds of faces peering out, some of them maybe making eye contact with him, too, for a millisecond. But too fast to be able to hold. He thought of all of the different stories behind all of the millisecond faces, for every face had its own story. Just like every hand their own thumbprint. Every zebra its own stripe pattern. But it was all too daunting to even try to comprehend, so, once the train passed, the boys stood up, waited a few minutes until they couldn't feel the tracks moving at all, and then crossed with their groceries.

"Will you come out to your mom then?" Carl asked at one point, suddenly. They'd been talking about the time Carl left the handbrake on and saw his Car roll into the garage. It explained the dent. So Oliver's shock _was_ justified given how sudden the subject change had been.

He shrugged. "Will you come out?"

"I'm afraid," Carl said, like he'd dumbed a sack of bricks at his feet.

"Me, too," was all Oliver said.

* * *

A car pulled up in the driveway when Carl was unlocking the front door. Oliver squinted, saw the man inside. "Is that him?" he asked.

"Shane," Carl affirmed.

"Oh." For some reason Oliver had sort of imagined a small, balding, overweight man with a round face and greying hair. But that wasn't what Lori's boyfriend looked like. He had a long face and a tall nose, tight curly black hair and his light skin was a little tanned. His laugh lines were deep and strong, and when he got out of the truck Oliver saw how very tall he was, and he was the kind of _well built_ that Oliver had only ever seen in... well, those _privet places_ of the internet. He was dark and handsome and strong and intimidating, dressed in jeans, an old plane T-shirt, and had dark brown boots on.

"Hey," he said to them. Southern accent, deep, gravelly voice.

"Hey," Carl said, opened the door. "How was the ceremony? And the _free food_?"

"Good, man," Shane laughed and shook his head. It must have been an inside joke, only Carl wasn't really laughing much. When he saw Oliver watching the man, his eyebrows up, Carl frowned, grabbed his sleeve but let go when Oliver followed him inside.

"You're Oliver," Shane said, and went inside with them, "right?"

"Yeah, nice to meet you, sir."

Shane smiled and nodded, then turned to Carl while they headed down the hallway. "Where's my girl then?" he asked. Oliver saw the grit in Carl's jaw when he said it, guessed that it was because Carl didn't particularly like his mom getting called anybody's _girl,_ but as they followed him into the kitchen, Oliver realised he wasn't talking about Lori anyway. . . He scooped Judy up from her high chair and the little girl giggled at him, wriggling frantically when he tickled her. Again, he said: "My girl!"

Oliver was confused, and nothing helped when he saw how annoyed Carl looked. Shane noticed, too, and smiled at them across the kitchen as he put the toddler back in her chair. Lori was outside in the garden tending to the bean plant, and Shane headed out, patted Carl's shoulder as he passed strong enough that the boy jolted to it.

"Head up, survivor," he said, his voice low and patronising. "Your rifle needs more ammo."

Carl stared ahead of him even when Shane was gone, his eyes blank and over-thinking. Oliver saw the grind in his jaw and opened his mouth to say something, but Carl dropped the groceries on the counter and left the room. Oliver followed him, but not before he heard Shane and Lori talking outside, and by the hissed tones Oliver knew she'd heard that.

"He said he'd stop doing that," was the first thing Carl said when Oliver closed the bedroom door. The younger boy was sat at his desk. His leg shook violently. "He said he would cut it out... But he does it like it's a game. Like it's a competition. That's what all that shit was a few weeks ago. He said it in front of Dad and it... God, it almost ruined everything." Oliver took a seat on the floor next to him, rested his head on his kneecap. Carl had to stop shaking it.

"I think there are a few things you haven't told me yet," Oliver said softly.

Carl took a breath, "It's a long story."

"We've got time."

Then Carl pushed himself off the chair and crossed his legs to sit in front of Oliver, he inhaled, held it, then leant forward and kissed his eyelids one at a time. "Okay," he said. "Remember that coma I told you about, that my dad was in?" Oliver nodded. "He got shot while working," Carl said. "It was about five years ago. And he was under for two months." He paused, and Oliver saw the pain in it. "Shane was home, a lot. I was a kid, and he was home a lot anyway 'cause he was Dad's best friend since school, but..."

The pause became too long, so Oliver asked, "So it was an affair?" and Carl looked up at him but said nothing. "That's why your parents divorced?" Then Carl nodded, but shook his head a second later.

"It wasn't that simple," he said. "They only divorced a few years ago."

Oliver had to think for a few moments. He thought of what Carl told him the other day about his mom getting her stomach pumped after trying to abort Judith. He thought of the timing, and the way Shane called Judith his girl... "Oh."

"Yeah," Carl said.

"I didn't know," Oliver said, then winced. "I mean. Whenever you mentioned him you didn't sound like you hated him at all."

"It's 'cause I don't," Carl said. "Well, sometimes I do. But... I dunno, it's kind of weird. When I was a kid Shane was... I dunno, I looked up to him, y'know? He was like my idol, like, right after my dad. And we still have good days, now, but, I dunno. I'm never gonna think of him the same way. Not anymore."

"So is that the secret you kept? Is that what you didn't tell anybody."

Carl shook his head. "I didn't know about the affair. I mean, not for sure. Not until..." He sighed, started over. "I didn't tell anybody about when Mom took the pills. I always thought about it, like, I'd zone out thinking about it, but it wasn't until a few years later that I really _thought_ it out, and I guess I kinda had figured it out but... But I was scared to find out, for real, but, one night, Mom was up late in the office. I was getting a drink, but, I just went in and asked her... _'Is Judith_ _Shane's?'_ And, she went real _quiet._ I'm not sure for how long but I cried when she said she didn't know. I remember that. I remember not thinking I would. Thinking I'd planned what I'd do and say and that I'd be able to keep it all in, but, I dunno, really _knowing,_ or, not knowing –whatever– it just kinda hit me hard. Her, too. 'Cause I guess for months she knew I'd been suspicious... that I knew. Was gettin' mad at Shane for little things, acting weird around them when he'd visit... 'Cause... They hadn't stopped. I knew it... I _saw_ it."

Oliver felt the split in his heart. Felt it in Carl's, too, felt it tare that little bit more like it must've done every time he thought about it. . .

Carl thought about that day. His dad was at the doctor with Judith for her shots, and Carl had come back from the field early because he'd gotten winded when Benny Sansa decided to turn soccer practice into football practice instead. He went to the fridge and was going to make a milkshake but there wasn't any sugar so he went with Jenny to get some from the pantry in the garage. He didn't like the garage, for some reason it always scared him in there, even at fourteen. He'd been getting nightmares about getting attacked in there, thrown to the floor, dodging swinging shovels and grabbing hands, getting told he and his family were dead by someone he thought was a friend. He clutched Jenny's collar and let her lead him through the utility room. He opened the door quietly, twisting the handle and holding it so it wouldn't squeak. But he heard the grunting, and the sound of a shelf getting knocked against the wall. He thought another raccoon had gotten in there, and opened the door a little more, but then he saw what was happening behind Lori's car. But it had nothing to do with native wildlife. Shane had his pants down by his ankles and Lori's legs were wrapped around his waist. Jenny slipped out of Carl's grip and he jerked back in time for them to startle at her instead of him, and while they were busy pulling on their clothes and giggling in relief at the nosy dog, Carl had curled up under his comforter sheets upstairs, more confused and shocked than anything yet, and he stayed there until Shane went to look for him a few hours later, found him and told him his mom had made lunch, and Carl thanked him and pretended he didn't want to put a bullet through his brain.

"It took Mom two more years before she told him – Dad," Carl explained. "It was awful. I hated her. I hated them both. I never said it but she knew. In the end it was too much for her to hide anymore."

Oliver imagined the guilt she must have felt. He imagined Carl shrinking away into himself, hiding the secret that had been eating away at him for years.

"I hate when Shane gets like that, though," Carl said. "Like he was downstairs. Like he owns us. Like he deserves us." He scowled at the floor and buried himself in his bitterness. Oliver stood up, took the bitter-buried boy's hand and pulled.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

"Where are we going," Carl asked, stood a little too close. Neither boy minded.

"We're going on an adventure," Oliver said.

* * *

It was closer to the evening now. They were kissing. In fact, they'd spent the majority of their day kissing. Though, Oliver hadn't lied about the whole adventure thing, per se. They _had_ left the house, and they _did_ have fun, and it _was_ quite an adventure. Just not in the way they had expected. Based on what Carl had mentioned before, Oliver thought it would be cool to check out that old abandoned train station, Terminus. So they went, and Carl was right, it was creepy. After following the track they had to climb over the chain link fence that surrounded the compound. There were old crates and empty train freights – they knew they were empty because they'd looked inside. Once inside the actual building though, they found rooms upon rooms of old offices and warehouses and halls and waiting areas. Dust and grime covered everything, and their feet made soft tap noises against the smooth cement in such a way that the quietness of it rang the whole way through them. In one room they found used belongings, like every lost possession in the world had somehow found its way here; watches and toys and hats and bags and jewellery, and even a few gunshot shells. In one room somebody had made graffiti paintings of human carcasses hung up on meat hooks –the boys didn't stay in that room for very long. They found another room with old, used, dusty candles dotted around the whole floor, strung from the ceiling or popped on stands or laid in neat assortments on the floor, chalk names written like shrines all over the place, and written on the wall in bold black writing was:

 _ **NEVER FORGET. WE FIRST, ALWAYS.**_

"Macon really takes its urban legends seriously, huh?" Oliver said quietly when he got a little too scared. Carl hooked his belt loops with his thumb and pulled them to leave the room, only they both startled out of their skin when the whole building suddenly started to shake violently. Oliver thought it was an earth-quake, and he grabbed Carl's hand and was going to rush to the doorway to hide, but the younger boy pulled him back.

"No."

"Carl, come on."

"It's just a train," he said, and they watched the dust shudder above its fixtures like a second skin. The train was loud and powerful, tearing past the abandoned station. "They still pass, they just don't stop."

After a few seconds the noise dulled, and the train was gone, and the dust settled around the room again.

". . . Holy shit," Oliver grinned. "That was so cool!"

Carl laughed, took his hand again, and the two continued further into the train station. Kissing became involved then, if it felt necessary, which, for the most part, it did feel very much so. Even when the next train passed they were still kissing, only they were outside now atop the big red train freight with the white _'A'_ on the side. Oliver had made the climb first, and then helped Carl up. They were in the cover of tall trees, high up enough that they were hidden away from the rest of the world. The whole freight shook while the train passed the station, and Oliver grinned into Carl's lips and told him that he loved him, only he'd said it in Italian, and then said it again when Carl climbed between his legs, and it felt so easy and natural that Oliver found himself unbuttoning his jeans when he said it a third time. But then, when Carl said it back, only in English, Oliver let him make love to him right there on top of the train freight.

It was nothing like Oliver expected it would be –in the manor it was, that is. He'd sort of assumed it would pretty much be the same as being with a girl, only with the appropriate switches for the different body parts taken into account. But it turned out that being with Carl wasn't like being with Penelope at all. Physically, it was almost like Oliver's first time all over again; unexpected and inexperienced and uncoordinated, but of course the only intoxication that took place this time was the smell of Carl's skin and the way he made Oliver feel like he would turn inside out, because that was the emotional part. The part where Oliver was more vulnerable and more at home in the strangest mix of _feeling_ he'd ever experienced. He only remembered that Carl really _was_ losing his virginity when it was over almost as quickly as it had started. For a while Carl couldn't say anything. Neither could Oliver, really. But not in a bad way. More in a way like the same way they usually didn't start a conversation; so that in the silence something worth saying would have enough time to come together properly. But in the end neither boy needed to say anything at all, and finally they were dressed again, and one boy took the other's hand, kissed his cheek, and they both climbed down from the train freight.

* * *

It was over supper that Carl decided to tell his mother. Oliver had about an eighteen second time-span to prepare himself after Carl simply whispered, "Number twenty," to him across the table, and Oliver knew which it was on the bucket list because he'd been excited for what Carl had been saving it for. He should have guessed, really.

 _20\. Say yes to something you're afraid of._

" _Will you come out?"  
_ _"_ _I'm afraid."  
"Me, too."_

Turned out, this would be Carl's yes. . .

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey – oh, Judy, that's not the end of the spoon you're supposed to use. Shane, could you?"

"Got it."

"Thanks."

Again: "Mom."

"Sorry, baby. Yeah."

Oliver was frozen, rooted into floor and seat like part of a tree. He still had birthday cake in his mouth.

"I'm gay," Carl said, stammered for only a second before: "for Oliver."

 _Well,_ Oliver thought, _. . . shit._

Oliver wasn't sure of everything that they all said or did or what he said or did for the next few minutes, just that for the most part he was holding his heart down so much he had to clench his lips shut to help. "How long have you known?" Oliver was fairly certain he'd heard Lori ask at one point, like she wasn't really sure why she was asking, like she was just still processing, connecting the dots, and Carl said, "A while," in such a way that all Oliver heard was, _"Since I found a boy late at night tied to a tree in an orange tutu."_ And at another point Carl's mom also asked, "Are you sure?" and at first Oliver thought she was upset, because she'd asked him, too, but she was stroking her son's hand which Oliver guessed was a good sign, and Carl glanced at Oliver at the same time Oliver glanced at him, and in unison they both said, "Pretty sure," only Oliver had added the, "ma'am," at the end like always. Shane looked like he was trying not to laugh, and when Carl asked why the man said, "Does this mean you'll start paintin' your nails and callin' yourself _queen_?" and Carl shrugged and said back, "Maybe. But I'll always kick your ass at soccer, so you should focus more on upping your game rather than stereotyping," and Oliver was sure that he'd just demoted _every_ superhero he'd ever worshipped in his whole life, and then some. Heck, even _Gandalph_ (who proudly sat above all and everything) was somewhere lowered on the corporate latter of Awesomeness. Shane nodded in truce, grinned like he might've even been impressed. Carl let himself grin, too.

"So, everything's cool?" he asked after a few more questions and whatever else they spoke about, and Oliver saw the nervous swallow, noticed the goosebumps that had risen all the way up Carl's arms and neck. "'Cause, I can't help it." He was smiling, but he was terrified. "I don't even want to. Not anymore. I did. For a long time. And it made me totally miserable but... I just wanna be me, now. And I want to be okay with that and I want... I want for you to be okay with that, too."

Then came the long pause. Oliver wasn't aware of the moment he'd taken Carl's hand under the table, or maybe Carl had taken his hand. Either way it didn't matter. Either way Shane was watching Lori like he was worried and Lori was staring at her son like she was about to crumble into the floor boards. . . Carl's breath hitched, and Oliver squeezed.

"My sweet boy," left her lips, and Lori lent over the corner of the table and kissed her son on the forehead. "I love you," she said, closed her eyes and brought her hand up to his nape, squeezed. "My sweet, sweet, boy. I love you." She started to cry then. "Best thing I ever did."

Then Carl was tearing up, too. When he swallowed his whimper Shane patted his shoulder and said he'd give them a minute, and when he was gone Carl let himself really cry, or maybe _dissolve_ might be a better word. After everything he'd tried so hard to hold back and hide, his mother's acceptance broke him in the best way imaginable. When she said she loved him again he said he loved her, too, sobbed it into her neck, and Oliver had to take a bite from his slice of chocolate birthday cake as not to start crying along with them. But he couldn't really help it when Lori scooped him up in her arms and sobbed into the top of his head. He felt like the biggest child in the world when he couldn't help but ask if she was unhappy, mimicking Em without even meaning to, but she shook her head and kissed the top of his head again.

"No," she said. "I'm not unhappy. Promise. I'm just an emotional train-wreck."

It took a few minutes for the three of them to settle. Lori wiped her eyes with her thumbs as best she could without smudging her make-up, and when she got self-conscious and got up to clean herself up, Carl told her she didn't need to, that she was beautiful, and so she cried for a little longer before she could properly talk again.

"So you're boyfriends?"

Carl stuttered, looked at Oliver, who also stuttered, but when he nodded Carl nodded, too, then turned to his mom and said, "Yeah. Guess."

She smiled, at first like she might laugh, but it turned proud, and her chin tipped up as she said, "Well, I, for one, approve."

Oliver wiped his face and took another bite of cake. Carl smirked at the way his cheeks lit up like Christmas trees. "Mom," he said. "Don't tell Dad yet. I will. Eventually. It's just..."

"It's okay. I understand."

Carl nodded. Oliver watched him. They were even now. One parent each. Oliver wondered if it was even necessary to come out to their second parents. Carl was in a more stable boat to do so since he had his mother's support now, but if Rosa took it badly, if she kicked him out, Oliver wouldn't have anywhere... and so he decided it wasn't the right time to tell her. Not yet, and he reminded himself that that was okay, because this wasn't something he _had_ to tell anybody in the first place. Because it was his choice, and his choice was not to hide in the closet but to keep it open for him to stay safe inside of for a time.

"Oliver," Lori said, and he snapped out of his day-dream. "I'll find you some spare blankets. It can get a little cold in the living room at night but you should be comfortable with one or two extra."

"Wait, Mom."

"Don't jump to anything," she said, holding her hand up. "I'm just setting ground rules."

"What?" he said, and sounded a little afraid.

Lori smiled and said, "Thing is boy _or_ girl, anybody datin' either of my children is sleepin' on the couch."

" _Mom._ "

"It's cool," Oliver spoke over him. "I get it." He was about to say his mom would do the same, but he didn't say that. He had no idea what Rosa would do. "Thanks."

"Oliver can take my room," Carl offered. "I'll take the couch."

"No, I'm good down here. Promise."

Carl made a grumble, but other than persistent frowning the evening continued pretty complacently.

* * *

 _"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all."_

 _"No, you look great, Carol. Very... domestic."_

 _"Perfect."_

* * *

"Psst."

* * *

 _"Shower today. Okay? You_ _and_ _Carl need to. And, get into the habit of using deodorant every day, too."_

 _Oliver grimaced._

" _I mean it."_

 _"I don't need a shower though. And Carl had one yesterday."_

 _"You need to shower, Oliver. I'm serious."_

 _"Daryl hasn't showered at all."_

* * *

"Pssst. Oliver. Wake up."

* * *

 _"Shower. Today."_

 _"Okay, okay."_

 _"An' don't talk with your mouth full."_

* * *

"Oliver."

He groaned.

"Are you awake?"

"No."

". . . Are you awake now?"

"No."

"Okay, cool. Listen, I gotta ask you something..."

Oliver moaned, and very drowsily, his hand reached out from under the blanket and found Carl's mouth. He pressed his palm over it and could feel Carl's grin. The younger boy pulled the extremity away, played with it. . .

"I–"

Carl was asking painfully slowly. One word at a time.

"–want–"

He was pretty sure Oliver wouldn't stay awake long enough to hear it all.

"–you–"

Oliver was awake now, and Carl felt his heartbeat suddenly quicken through his fingers. It was his intention.

"–to ask me those questions?"

Carl took a moment to watch the confusion and disappointment all at once wash over Oliver's expression, heard the internal, _You little shit,_ that Oliver bit back so hard he was laughed at for it. Oliver blushed and punched Carl's shoulder. Carl settled himself. He was knelt beside him so rested his chin on Oliver's chest, jolting ever-so-slightly from the heartbeat inside it. Oliver looked self-conscious about it, but Carl didn't mind. Oliver rubbed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, worried about morning breath but realised it wasn't morning and that he'd hardly been asleep an hour yet. When he looked at his phone he saw that it was still Carl's birthday.

"Wait, what's happening?"

"Remember?" Carl asked softly, "The day you showed up at my house?"

"Barely," Oliver yawned.

"You went over those questions," Carl explained, and thought about how much he liked Oliver's tired voice. "Um, what makes me laugh and, what I think the purpose of condensation is."

"Oh." Oliver chuckled, and when he swallowed his throat made a weird noise. "I pretty much blacked out," he joked –kind of. "I don't remember where that came from."

Carl climbed onto the couch with him, shuffling closer, and Oliver watched him awkwardly, thought about what Lori would do if she knew Carl was down here but when he realised that when it came to the want for Carl to stay with him and the want not to get caught, the former outweighed the latter by about the size difference between bacteria and a whole planet. When Carl was comfortable, Oliver moved his hand up and rested it on the shallow curve of his side. His pyjama top had ridden up a little. Carl's skin was warm and smooth and comforting.

"Got anymore?" Carl asked curiously.

"Like what?"

Carl shrugged, and was looking at Oliver's collarbones poking out from the collar of his top. "Like... like the questions you, you know, _ache_ to ask... Like. Like..."

"What's your favourite sound?" Oliver said. "Do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? What's your favourite emoji?"

Carl gnawed on his lip. He believed it was like porn; watching Oliver brain-storm. "Yeah," he mumbled, "l-like those."

Then he remembered to answer, well, realised he was supposed to. He couldn't remember the last two so thought about the first one... But it seemed to become apparent to him that these kind of questions were a little difficult to answer. He knew their answers, and thinking them in a split second like he would everyday was easy for himself and himself only to know, but actually saying them to someone else, it seemed, was almost too intimate, like walking in on someone while they're peeing but going ahead and brushing your teeth anyway, well, no, it was probably a little different than that, but still, Carl's expression harboured the same shock he'd imagine someone would have when walked in on mid-pee.

"Um," Carl said, "I-I. . . I kinda like that noise mouths make when you whisper, a-and, the noise of sheets when you move your feet and hands."

There was a pause, and Carl demonstrated, gently rubbing under the pillow with his fingers. Oliver smiled, stared when the younger teenager leant close and whispered gibberish into his ear, the only noises leaving him the odd, soft, clicking and popping noises that his tongue and cheek-insides made. It seemed Oliver had never thought about the noises in any real extent. Carl guessed he would've expected them to be pretty disturbing, but hearing them now, Oliver looked in love with them. . . in love with _him._

"What's that one thing in your head you think of all the time?" Oliver asked then. Carl smiled, and answered him by taking the older's hand and kissing his knuckle, spreading his fingers and breathing between them. "No, _sap,_ " Oliver chuckled. "Not me. What else?"

"I don't know. Drawing. Sketching around people's faces and bodies when I'm talking to them. Sometimes I do it so much I zone out."

Oliver thought about how much time Carl spent squinting for no apparent reason, "That explains _so much,_ man."

"What's something you like to do but have never told anyone?" Carl asked when he could stop grinning. Oliver smirked.

"Think about guys," he said truthfully. "Like, a lot..." Oliver kept going. "Like, _a lot_ a lot. Because I really like it. Like, as much as I like thinking about girls." Carl laughed as quietly as hysteria would allow, which was a lot easier when Oliver kissed him to help, and when they stopped kissing, albeit, a little worked up and flustered by then because it was quite a while later, Oliver asked, "what about you?"

Carl looked awkward, all of a sudden.

"Tell me," Oliver poked.

"Well, I have this thing. I read this book last year, and, it's about this kid who's an artist and his twin sister, and it jumps between their time-line depending on who's narrating, and I kind of read it in about a day and have probably read it again and again more times than I have fingers."

"Wow."

"No, that's not it," Carl said.

"Oh?"

"No. Um, you see, the kid, he's got this thing where he makes mental _self portraits_ of how he feels when different things happen to him. Like, a window opening up in his chest or something. Well, it's kinda really fun. I do it all the time."

"Can I have some examples?"

Carl bit his lip, thought, "Um, okay. When you ran over Sophia with your board that day." Oliver's eyes rolled. He knew he'd never live that down. "When I saw how terrified you looked," Carl went on. "My self portrait was a circus bear, chains and rope tied around its legs. And its act was to rip apart a clown." A pause. "I was the bear. You were the clown."

Oliver's eyes widened. "Shit."

"Sorry."

Oliver laughed. Then stopped. "So, why didn't you rip the clown apart?"

Carl didn't have to think about it for as long as he thought he would. He said, "Because under its make-up the clown was just a boy. And under the chains the bear was just a dog. That was the self-portrait."

Oliver was smiling. The kind of smiling you do before you start crying.

"Um, when we stole the pizza bike my self-portrait was bursting from a black and white painting. It was you and me on the bike tearing through the canvas, colour and cheese splattering all over the place. And when I kissed you, in the lake, the first time. My self-portrait was me with a gun to my head, only, you were holding it, and on the bullet in tiny writing was my name. And the only way I could be _me_ was if you pulled the trigger... and I was so afraid of it... I _am_ so afraid of it. Of me... I kept thinkin': _when you take the shot it's gonna hurt so bad... it's gonna change everything..._ And it did... When you showed up at my door, all, huffing and puffing and–" Oliver started giggling, and Carl kissed him, mumbled into his mouth: "–thinkin' whatever the hell you were thinkin'... y'shot me right through the face."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said, and meant it.

"No," Carl said then, smiled and kissed him again, breathing the words so softly Oliver shivered. "No, don't be... I... I'm so... _glad..._ I'm so _me._ "

Oliver really looked like he would cry now. He was staring at Carl's ruffled pyjama shirt and suddenly ran his hands along it to neaten it. Like how Rosa would clean the house when she was nervous. He cleared his throat and asked, "Are you really gay?"

Carl pulled his lips to one side, shrugged. "For you? Sure." Oliver grinned, pressed his forehead to Carl's chin. "To be honest I totally panicked," Carl explained. "I thought I'd say I was just dating you. But then I realised we hadn't... you know, talked about that yet."

"Still haven't," Oliver pointed out. Carl bit his lip nervously. Oliver touched it, his lip, and thought it was probably odd but decided he didn't care. "We are though, right?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah," Carl said, felt his cheeks flush. " _Anyway,_ so I just said the next thing that would make sense to her. But then you were sat there and... yeah, I jus' panicked."

Oliver smiled. "Guess I'm kinda gay for you, too."

"What's your favourite book?" Carl asked, because he apparently couldn't take the sap.

"I'm not sure," Oliver said, thought about it and frowned into Carl's chest as he did. . . "Probably something like Butterfly Lion. You can have my copy when I get home – cross if off our bucket list."

"Thanks."

"What's your biggest fear?" Oliver asked then.

 _Spiders,_ Carl should have answered. _The walking dead. I get creeped out by the noise of cotton getting pulled apart, and creating something I'm not proud of, or_ _Judith getting sick. But most of all. . ._

"I'm afraid of people seeing me the same way I see myself."

Oliver's brow arched. When he stared too much Carl sat up awkwardly, suddenly emotional. He rubbed away the tears, pushed them back, and forced his laugh.

"God. Uh, that was a little deeper than I meant it to be."

Oliver sat up, too. After a moment he put his chin on Carl's shoulder and laced a hand through his fringe. Carl pulled the hand forward, kissed the fading bruises on his inner forearm. Oliver didn't try to stop him even though every cell in his body told him to. Carl examined each contusion, carefully and gently and delicately. Some were fading but others were new. Very new. So new they were still warm and he suddenly knew letting Oliver sleep alone was a mistake. He hadn't seen them before. Not since the day Oliver's shirt was stolen in school. On the roof of the train freight Oliver wouldn't take off his sweater despite the circumstance, and Carl didn't ask again because he understood why.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," was what the boy said, whispered it. He turned around to face Oliver, slid his hands up and under the fabric, only this time Oliver allowed him to pull the item of clothing off. Oliver's breath became short when Carl touched his shoulders and chest and stomach, pressed his palms there and followed the soft ridges of his skin and flesh, and he didn't take his eyes away from the marks. "I know, Oliver," he told him again, and Oliver's breath hitched worse, exposed and vulnerable, but like it was dangerous, like it was Carl holding the gun with Oliver's name on the bullet this time instead. "I know what you do to yourself."

"I'm sorry."

Carl shook his head, wrapped his arms around him and pulled himself closer. He shushed Oliver when he was breathing too fast, told him, "For a while now I've been trying to think of what to say to you to help. But, I don't think I need to say anything at all, for a while. I don't think you need to either."

Oliver started crying, feeling like he'd burst. It was awful. Carl pulled him closer and let him cry into his front, and he did cry. Oliver cried harder than he'd cried in a long time. And it was nothing but sad crying, for a long time. Sad because it broke his mother's heart when she found out. Sad that for so long the hurting had been taking over, drowning him in a fish tank only he knew was there while everybody else moved past filling their lungs with the air he wanted so badly. Sad because he felt like he couldn't help it – because he _wouldn't_ help it, because the controlled hurt was his coping mechanism, like adding sugar to something that would never be sweet enough. When the uncontrollable hurt of everything around him got too much and the music and reading weren't enough to dull it, hurting himself was the only thing that stopped him from slipping out of _being_ altogether.

Carl kissed the top of his head and whispered that everything would be okay, and that was all he had to say to turn the sad crying into grateful crying, too. Because Oliver _was_ grateful. For the past few days Carl had been the best distraction Oliver had found yet. Carl was like his superhero.

"Do you wanna do something?" Carl asked after a while. Oliver had stopped crying, and he'd simply been holding onto him. Breathing and thinking and feeling.

"Something fun," Oliver said, and Carl smiled and kissed the top of his head.

"Yeah. Something fun two-point-o."

* * *

 **Notes**

FYI, THE BOYS MOST DEFINITELY _DID_ USE PROTECTION. I don't care how little detail I used they definitely used protection! Use condoms and dams, guys and girls and everybody in between or outside, depending on the varied anatomy involved!

Ok'm done :)

Btw, finding somebody to love isn't the answer to help self harm, or any other thing you might or might not be dealing with rn. Oliver will come to realise this soon but I just thought I should get it out there now so that you some of you lovelies didn't take that as a, _I'll never get better unless somebody loves me,_ message, because it's not true and the best way to start getting better is loving yourself _**first**_ , so, get to that. You deserve it :)

Disclaimer: The book Carl was talking about is _I'll Give You the Sun_ :D SO GOOD!

A part of me is theorising that in this AU the whole world gets these odd little nightmare/dreams of the _real_ world this is based off. So, like it isn't only Oliver that thinks about it sometimes. Like the whole world has a whole other world tickling away at the back of their heads. Maybe. I dunno :D

As always,  
Happy reading xx : _)_


	20. Part 3: Prime

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Haha, holy shit, BGCP! Calm the fuck down before you asdfghjkl all over your keyboard! Thank you. I adore you.

 **DarthGranola** Haha, classy sex. I'm honestly so satisfied right now. I've for-filled my life's goal. xD thank you! So much. Your support has been so great.

* * *

 **Beginning of chapter:**

* * *

"Come on, man," Carl complained confidently. Where exactly he was getting this confidence was lost on him completely. "We're living in the prime of our lives right now. And it's my _birthday._ Can't you cut us some slack?"

The bouncer folded her arms over her chest. She was small, and Oliver was fairly sure that he could just rush past her. But he didn't dare. The look on her face made it clear that if either tried anything she would have no trouble in snapping them back and onto the curb in seconds. She looked the two lanky eighteen year olds up and down, cocked a dark brown eyebrow. It had a piercing in it. . .

"No."

Oliver frowned. Carl smiled, arched his eyebrows. "Pretty please?"

Unlike usual, the charm did not work. The woman glared. "Leave, or I call the cops."

Carl stepped back, snatched Oliver's hand and stormed off down the street. He muttered, "Dammitdammitdammit," under his breath. Oliver was waving goodbye to a girl he'd met in the line. Her name was Sissel and she was with another guy called Noah. They'd been talking about kittens, for some reason, and now they were following each other on instagram. But anyway, as they left they waved to the two boys, yelling, "Have a good night, guys!" as the turned the corner.

They walked the few blocks back to Carl's car. He glared at the steering wheel and Oliver rested his fake driver's licence beside his legitimate one on the dashboard. "Maybe I don't look as much like Pat as I thought," he said, frowning at the differences between their pictures, as the fake licence was just Patrick's revoked license.

"No," Carl said irritably. "It's because the corner's cut off. And you look about fifteen years old in that sweater!"

Oliver pursed his lips and stuffed the useless card back into his pocket. "I hid the corner behind my thumb. And I like this sweater." Oliver lifted his arms and hugged himself. The sweater was too big, with grey and red stripes. His own original sweater he'd been wearing all day was covered in leaves and moss –from its x-rated experiences on top of the train freight, and so Carl said Oliver could wear something of his. Oliver liked it. "It's comfy."

"Mom bought it for me at a thrift store."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's for girls."

Oliver frowned.

"What?" Carl said in defence. "I haven't thrown it out yet."

Oliver looked back at the sweater and took a moment to realise he didn't actually care, so he shrugged and said, "Whatever. I still like it."

Carl rolled his eyes and tried not to grin, or agree, even though he might have.

If it wasn't obvious, the boys had just rather miserably failed at trying to get into a night club. The plan was for Carl to go in and stumble once he got past the door, and at the same time Oliver would quickly grab the licence and pretend it was his, too. It was stupid, but that only occurred to them both when the bouncer had locked eyes on them before they'd even gotten to the door.

"God British people are so cool," Oliver said then. "If we were British we'd be in there right now."

Carl sighed. "What do we do now?"

"I guess we just go back."

"What – no!" Carl barked. "It took us half an hour to find this place."

Oliver checked the time. 23:02 flashed on the dashboard. He smirked. "It's still Thursday."

"So?" Carl asked. "My birthday has nothing to do with this."

"No," Oliver said, "Number twenty-six, man." There was a pause as Carl recited their bucket list in his head, then grinned. "Yeah," Oliver grinned back. "It's time to make Taco Thursday a thing."

* * *

They ordered their tacos and cinnamon twists and root-bears and fruit punches. Ate them in the car. Because something about eating tacos late at night in a deserted Library parking lot enthralled the boys. The fire department Shane worked at was only a block away. Oliver saw the big red fire-truck parked outside and thought it looked cool. They stuffed their faces and talked about how overrated clubbing was even though neither had ever been before, and then they started talking about what Carl really meant earlier by _living in the prime of their lives._

"It kind of just came out," Carl admitted, and made a face trying to get food out of his teeth.

"I feel in my prime," Oliver joked. "Sat in your car eating Taco Bell outside a library in the middle of the night. If that isn't what life is about, I don't know _what_ is."

Carl laughed. The laugh was low and giddy. Oliver wondered if maybe that girl, Sissel, had managed to sneak Carl some whisky or something. But doubted it. Carl simply seemed happy. The kind of happy that's easy to mistake for intoxication. But no, Carl wasn't drunk. If Carl was drunk then he'd have been staring at Oliver mumbling on and on about unnecessary _eye-contact_ again.

"Oh," he said. "I know something else."

"Yeah?" Oliver asked.

"Gay marriage," Carl answered. "It was legalized a few weeks ago. Now _all_ of America has double the chances of getting hitched."

"Unless, you know, some of us aren't homosexuals," Oliver pointed out.

"Yeah, well, some of us are."

"Some like us?" Oliver mumbled, felt heat up his neck.

Carl grinned and sipped his fruit punch. "You know what I think," he asked then.

"No," Oliver lied.

Carl hesitated a millisecond before letting, "I think we should get married," roll out between his lips. Oliver giggled, ridiculously. But Carl kept watching him. When Oliver's gut jumped he played it off by scoffing incredulously. Carl thumped his elbow. "What?"

"Come on, man."

Carl made a noise, coy and goofy.

"You know what _I_ think?" Oliver asked. Carl watched his lips as he spoke... "I think you should head inside the library and spend a few hours in the Self-Help section. You've lost it."

Carl laughed, but chose to give Oliver a break. He'd already had a rough past twenty-four hours; helping out with Carl's birthday, taking his virginity, coming out to Lori and Shane, and then spending the most of the night crying... Joking –or not joking– about marriage wasn't fair to add to his list of things to try really hard not to break apart about.

"Hook my cell up to the stereo if you wanna put something on."

Oliver fiddled with cables and Carl unlocked his phone to find his music.

"Sorry," Oliver mumbled.

"Why?"

"I saw your password."

Carl laughed, "I don't care, dork." He handed Oliver his cell and told him to pick something. Oliver put it on shuffle instead. He'd come to realise there was a lot you could learn about a person from the music they listen to. Well, it was that and the fact that none of Carl's music was labelled properly. It was all illegally downloaded, and so it was impossible to tell anything from anything at all, much to Oliver's annoyance. It was fairly all over the place, Carl's taste. Some was up-beat hip hop, others were rock and roll bands. Some made Oliver sit back and close his eyes through the whole song, and Others made him roll his eyes and force himself not to skip. Oliver could get opinionated about music, but he didn't ever want to become a snob. At one point a track by the Jonas Brothers came on that Carl swore to God Sophia had put on there and _not_ him. Both boys still sat and listened to it, humming along. But then this one song came on. It had no lyrics, but through pure sound, the hairs across Oliver's neck stood on end, and there was nothing he could do to help himself from scrambling to leave the cinnamon twists and half-eaten taco on his seat while he both climbed out of the car and turned up the music full-blast, gasping, "What – Good – Ooh – This one!"

* * *

 **"All This" by Point Point  
** ** _(Stale M &M's _****_playlist is in the bottom of my profile)_**

* * *

"Oliver?!" Carl grimaced at him as he slid across the hood of the car to get to the other door. "What're y – _ugh_!"

"Come on!"

Oliver was pulling the boy out of the vehicle. Carl only just managed to put his taco on the dashboard before he was dragged in front of the car. Oliver grinned at him, pulled him close. . . then began dancing. His knees bent and his hips twisted and his hands ran circles in front of them like they were operating an invisible bicycle. It was disastrous. Carl laughed and pulled away. But Oliver pulled him back, gently and slowly.

"Dance with me?"

"I can't dance."

"Me neither." Oliver kissed him. "Doesn't matter. Promise."

Carl stared, then nodded, and he brought one hand up around Oliver's neck and the other met Oliver's left beside them. It was Carl who pulled Oliver closer this time. Oliver blushed, and a short exchange of nervous nods took place before he began leading their movements, and if any were abrupt or larger than Carl expected he wouldn't be able to stop himself from gasping or laughing or both. Oliver laughed, too, swaying and twirling in some kind of messy waltz around the whole car. Though, soon, the music infected them; becoming more intense and compact in such a way it filled their heads like holding your breath under water, consuming them just like that night in the lake. Soon they weren't really dancing at all, just holding close and tight, their foreheads pressed and their eyes closed and their bodies compacting along to the sounds that guided them like waves. They could feel the car headlights dazzling them, and goosebumps ran up their bodies from both the cool night and whatever other hormone overload they were experiencing from one another, and then the song got quiet, soft. But it hadn't stopped. It was building momentum. It only occurred to Oliver that they both were too when he opened his eyes and saw Carl staring right back at him, and they stared and stared and stared, until the music seemed to explode, all at once, and with it, so did they. So the consuming feeling came back, and it got so powerful that the next thing they both knew was that they were in the back of Carl's car spending the rest of Thursday night losing themselves together.

* * *

 _ **BZZZ!**_

Oliver rose from the back seat, squinting from the early morning sun. There was condensation on the windows so he wiped a small part away to see outside. The parking lot was still pretty deserted. In the street opposite, an old man was walking his dog.

 _ **BZZZ!**_

"Gityourphoneman," Oliver growled. Carl groaned back, reached into the front seat and pressed the right parts of the cell to snooze it. It went quiet again. Somewhere in the distance Oliver could hear birds tweeting. Oliver started falling asleep again by the time–

 _ **BZZZ!**_

"Wha..." Carl grimaced, but suddenly realised he hadn't put his phone on snooze in the first place, rather rejected a call from his– "Mom?"

Oliver sat up, winced when his headache set in. _Is it possible to get a hangover from Taco Bell and sex?_ he wondered painfully. _No,_ he answered himself. _But it's definitely possible to get a headache from falling asleep in weird positions._ He stretched his neck but stopped when it throbbed too much. He could hear Lori on the other end of the line. She sounded only around 77% pissed the hell off.

"No," Carl said, "we're fine. We just... went out."

Oliver bit his lip and tried to find his jeans. _How the hell did they get in the trunk?_

"We're on our way back now," Carl sort of lied –technically they were aiming for that at least. "No. No, we didn't drink. Promise... Yeah. Um, we slept in the car... Mom!"

Oliver didn't need to ask what she'd said.

"We're fine. We just lost track of time. Yes. I'll be home before the others get here. Yes. No. No. Yes please. Two – Oliver, how many eggs do you want?"

Oliver made a cutting motion in front of his throat to say he didn't want anything.

"He wants two, too," Carl said to her. Oliver rolled his eyes. "Okay. Bye, Mom." He hung up, put on his shirt when Oliver handed it to him. "Thanks."

"What time're Sophia and Duane getting to your mom's?"

"Noon," he said. "Probably."

They finished getting dressed, and it wasn't until Carl pulled out of the parking lot that he noticed Oliver seemed a little quiet. He was on his phone, looking down at some kind of website with blue and grey colours and formal writing and small text, from what Carl could see in the short glance he took at it.

"You okay?" he asked. Oliver looked at him, nodded. Carl could tell he didn't mean it. "What's up?"

Oliver shrugged, took a few moments watching the red light Carl had stopped at before speaking. . .

"I'm just... tired."

Depression was weird. It would come on in bursts. Sometimes it'd work slowly and hardly noticeable until Oliver simply felt heavy and hidden inside some big cloud he couldn't see but knew was there, and sometimes his depression would come on quickly, in the middle of sentences. He'd be laughing at something and then he'd suddenly stop and drift for a second, thinking, _What am I doing here? Why am I trying? Why am I kidding myself?_ and then he'd come back and try to laugh again but wouldn't quite manage it that time, and he'd know that that was the start of the long wait until the dark cloud would either take over completely or fade away, somehow. This morning it seemed to be a slow burn. Oliver felt like swatting it away, like it was a bug, but knew it was useless. Instead he put on his smile and pulled Carl's hand away from the wheel for a second to kiss it.

"I'm fine."

Carl watched him for a second, squeezed his hand and told him he loved him, only it came out as, "Buckle up," so Oliver did his seatbelt up, and Carl looked back to the light, saw it change and drove on. Oliver had been thinking about something for a while now. But it took him another few minutes to finally voice it. . .

"Do you... Do you think my dad'll ever talk to me again?"

The car jerked, but Carl kept his driving skills together long enough not to stall, turning onto the highway. "Um. I don't know. Why?"

"He's on another business trip. Mississippi. He won't be back for another two and a half months. And, I get that he hardly talks to me anyway but usually he tells me where he's going before he puts it on his website."

"He's got a website?"

Oliver nodded. Carl realised that must have been what he'd seen before.

"Carl."

"Yep."

"What did he tell you? That day?"

Carl went quiet for a second. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, Carl."

He was narrowing his eyes, thinking about it, remembering the grinding under-bite and the brown eyes that Oliver had inherited. But Mr. De Luca didn't look like Oliver. Not when he spoke to Carl that morning. He looked like a character from a comic book, one of the villains. One of the villains you thought weren't going to turn out to be the bad guy. When he spoke, every syllable came quick and intentional, designed for maximum effect, and he chose the result of every blow. It was the Medical Doctor's technique; moving without warning from conversation to bombardment.

" _How is your breakfast?"  
"You're father's a cop, right?"  
"Did you know my father was a cop, too?"  
"It's a lot of pressure, having someone like that to look up to, isn't it?"  
_" _I bet you've got a lot of people you don't want to disappoint..."  
_ _"You and Oliver have been friends a little while now, right?"  
_ _"I know he's been going through a rough patch lately, but he needs to focus on college and his career and moving forward with his life... See, that list doesn't exactly consist of his friends... or you, does it?"  
_

 _"I'm advising you to stop, Carl. Do you understand?"_

 _"He's young, and impressionable, and he's gonna make mistakes. And so are you. That's part of life. . . Just make sure you make your own mistakes without dragging my boy down with you, alright? Or I'm afraid you'll be disappointing a lot more people than just yourself in the future."_

Carl kept looking at the road, but he was blinking now. He glanced at Oliver and shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Carl..."

He switched lanes, said, "It doesn't," in such a way that it quietened Oliver totally. "It happened, but it's done now, and I'm not letting it ruin this... okay?"

Oliver nodded after a second or two, then turned to look out the window. He saw a little girl in the car next to them and she waved a doll at him. Oliver wanted to smile but he looked away.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Oliver said, and he meant it. "You're right. It's done, and it hasn't changed anything. That's all there is to it."

* * *

The two got back to Lori's and talked her worry down in time to be able to get ready for Duane and Sophia's arrival. When they did get there, they all went to the cinema and watched some movie about some geeky-kids caught up in a drug scandal –which did just about everything to convince Oliver and Carl they'd totally made the best choice in trashing the weed when they did. When the movie was over and it was still light outside, they decided to spend the rest of the evening bowling, or, _attempting_ to at least. Out of them all Sophia had the most accurate aim. The gutters apparently were big fans of the boy's bowling balls. At one point Oliver managed to throw his ball into the isle next door to them... He said sorry, and only three thirteen year old girls had to dive out of the way before they would have been crushed. But the most prominent memory of the evening had to have been the questions...

The whole _Carl and Oliver are dating_ thing wasn't really a secret anymore. At all. For hours nobody said anything, but the two boys neither avoided each other or sat on each other's lap whispering erotic fantasies together. They didn't see the point. They'd decided to just be there, as them, appreciating all of their company, and so it wasn't really until they were sat at the booths eating their cheesy fries during their game that the thing they were all ignoring but knew was there finally came to the surface when Oliver let his guard down enough that he slipped his hand in Carl's pocket without thinking about it.

Duane squared up to them, rolling his fluorescent green bowling ball in his hands. Sophia smirked when Oliver jerked his hand back out, clasped his fingers together in his lap. Duane pulled a face, like, _Somebody should say something, and if nobody does, then I will, and y'all know it's gonna be embarrassing..._

"We're dating, okay?"

It was Oliver who said it, almost yelled it. Duane shrugged, said, "Okay," and took his second go. He got a strike –one of his only so far, then turned to Carl and cocked an eyebrow. Carl could feel himself blushing shamelessly. "Oliver," Duane said, "your turn."

The boy got up, and while he was gone, Duane spoke to his best friend quietly.

"So... I was gonna say I knew all along, but to be honest I didn't believe it until I got here."

"I did," Sophia said, poked Duane's chest. "You owe me a coke."

Duane rolled his eyes and handed her five dollars. Carl grimaced.

"You were betting on my sexuality?"

"No," she said, and they all watched Oliver's ball roll into the gutter. Smiled encouragingly while he stood on the decking scratching the back of his head in unsurprised disappointment, waiting for his _'lucky ball'_ to come back through the machine. "We were betting on who was more observant out of us both." Then she handed the five dollars back to Duane. "But I guess I don't really deserve it."

Carl looked at her, knew what she was talking about. They hadn't talked about everything that had happened between the three of them yet. But in truth, Carl was starting to understand he might not even need to talk about it, and she nodded, as if to agree with his thoughts, so he leant forward and kissed her cheek and she whispered that she loved him and he whispered that he loved her, too, and then he got up to take his go.

Oliver sat down grudgingly. He didn't score a point. "I'm good at this on Wii."

Carl laughed as he passed him, almost brushed his fingers through his hair but thought better of it. After he'd taken his go, knocking down five pins, he came back to only find Duane.

"They're getting sodas."

It was Oliver's go so Carl nodded and sat down next to the boy to wait. Duane was a little quiet. Usually he'd make some joke to take the piss out of the animations showing on the screens above them, but he was smirking into his palms. When he'd taken too long to share his thoughts Carl shoved him in the shoulder. Then came the questions. . .

"Are you a top or a bottom?"

". . . What?"

Duane put down his fries and said, "You know, are you a top–" He. Motioned. With. His. Fingers. "Or a–"

" _Dude_!"

"I can't really imagine you being a bottom. Then again, I can't really imagine Oliver being a bottom either. But then I'm not sure I like imagining it at all."

"Stop. Now."

Duane laughed and dropped his hands, "We've talked about worse, man."

"Yeah well none of it was ever about either of our sex lives."

Duane shrugged, paused. . . "But didn't you do it with Eliza?" Carl was frowning in amazement. "What – didn't you like it?"

"No, no," he said. "Eliza was great – I mean, no, we didn't do... _it._ "

"Right, right," Duane said through his mouthful of fries. "You threw up on her boobs. I still find it hard to believe that nobody even drank that night."

"I was nervous."

"Was it because you didn't like her like that?"

"No, I did, but..."

"She just didn't have a d..."

"Duane," Carl complained, tried not to laugh. "Stop."

"But you don't even know what it's like to be with a girl."

"Neither do you," Carl shot back angry-affectionately.

Duane frowned, "Hey..." Paused. . . "Okay. Point taken." Another pause. "Do you think _I'm_ hot?"

"Duane. No."

Duane nodded, then stopped. "Wait, why not?"

"Jesus Christ," Carl moaned into his palms. Duane laughed and patted his shoulder.

"I'm just screwing with you, man."

Carl scoffed, sat up again and stole a few fries for himself.

"Just one more question though," Duane said, and Carl rolled his eyes so dramatically it ached. Duane looked him dead in the eye and asked, "After all these years. All the bro-codes and pacts and... I don't know, _porn-shares..._ why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Carl thought about this for a few seconds, saw Oliver and Sophia heading back over with the soda cups. Sophia told Oliver that she liked his sweater, and Oliver stretched his arms up and was going to spin around to show it off to her but he was so lanky that he almost spilled their drinks. Carl grinned, then turned back to Duane and said, "Because it took me this long to tell myself."

* * *

 **Notes**

The movie they saw was Dope, btw, and it's a great movie!

Also, I vote yes to Oliver in big girl's sweaters for a reason I cannot explain, just, asdfghjkl. Also, it may or may not have been inspired by a mixture of andytweed's favourite jumper and the jumper danisnotonfire wore in his new YouTube video... :] I'm trash. Leave me to take myself out, thank you very much.

Tell me what you thought x

Check out Quinn, just uploaded a chapter.

 **Preview: Oliver has a few things to come out with to his family, but it seems that he isn't the only one. . .**

As always,  
Happy reading xxx : _]_


	21. Part 3: Compromise

**BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** ahahaha thank youuu, and omg no his charm couldn't work _all_ the time.

 **the walking shadow** thank you x

 **Natsumo Fujoshit you** hahahah omfg you're epic

 **TMTN182** Cried, slightly. Shh, don't tell of Oliver will use it against me.

 **fedetornabene** i love you madly you must know this for if you do not know this the whole world must end because you have to know that i love you okay bye

 _btw, guys, check out Fede's Tumblr blog **train-wreck101** he drew Stale M&M's fanart. It's amazing like, omg, no, man, it's cool, my heart didn't need to keep beating anyway, i'm cool with being dead of loveness too, man, you little shit._

* * *

 **Beginning of chapter:**

* * *

Oliver was home for the first time in almost a week. He'd had fun with Carl and Duane and Sophia, and they were all home in King County now, too.

Rosa had made supper. Oliver had politely tried to decline, after already eating, but his mother glared at him hard enough that he sat down and ate again anyway. Family meant a lot to Rosa, and although she'd put her culture aside and let Oliver eat when he wanted for the most part, seeing as he was eighteen years old now, tonight seemed to exclude all exceptions. Tonight was for family, Italian style, because their family had been spending too much time apart lately. So they were going to sit around the table telling each other about their days and the weird documentary they saw on TV and that time when Oliver was three and he got a Lego piece stuck up his nose. Plus, one of the family members _had_ almost died a few days ago, so yeah, Oliver had enough sense not to argue. After managing to finish supper, Oliver spent a little while playing a board game with Em (in which the aim of the game for Oliver seemed to be more to make sure Em didn't manage to put the board pieces inside his underwear) and when it got to the little boy's bedtime Oliver went to bed too, so while Rosa read her youngest son a bedtime story, Oliver was across the hall, in his own quiet, in his own bedroom, finally.

He'd been sat against the foot of his bed for a little while now. The dark cloud hadn't gone away throughout the day but Oliver felt in control enough not to need to do anything about it.

He didn't need to bruise.

He wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

His fingers kept twitching against his skin, aching for the squeeze he'd granted them every other time before, but he didn't need to, not yet, not right now, not in this moment. He had to keep telling himself that. He had to keep telling himself that, to make sure it stayed true.

His mom had just finished reading to Em and whispered goodnight to Oliver through his door. He whispered it back, but a few seconds later he realised she was still there. . .

"Mom?"

" _Sì,_ " she whispered. He heard her palm slide against the door frame.

" _Avanti, avanti,_ " he said to her softly. So she came in, and when she saw him sat on his floor she thought about how young he looked. Like he was just that thirteen year old boy she used to give short pep talks to before he would be able to muster up enough courage to get out of the car and go into school. Neither said anything as she took a careful seat right beside him. She picked up his hand and kissed his wrist, and Oliver rested his head on her shoulder and fiddled with the button on her pale pink cardigan, and in that very moment Oliver thought about how glad he was to have a mother.

"How was Carl's birthday? I never asked."

"Fine," Oliver answered.

"Your father called," she said after a moment. Oliver suddenly froze. "He asked how Em was. I told him he was doing fine, that he's... finally started accepting that his tongue might not be a slug after all."

A pause.

"Did Dad... say anything else?"

"Told me about Mississippi..." she said. "Said he'd be leaving tonight and staying there for the next few months."

"I thought he left already," Oliver mumbled.

"He has by now," Rosa said, and her fingers ran through her son's fringe. Oliver closed his eyes, frowned, but in a good way. "Your father told me what happened," she said then. Again, Oliver tensed up. His whole body. It turned to stone. "He said you both had a _disagreement._ His words."

"Mom... I..."

She smiled and kissed the top of his head to quiet him, said, "I know, Oliver."

His breath hitched, and he pulled away to stare at her. "You do?"

She shrugged, brought her knee up to lean her elbow on it. "You got mad at him. After all this time you finally got some of it out."

"..."

"Actually, I'm surprised you didn't hit him," she said, then seemed to reprimand herself. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Mom."

"Actually, I'm sorry about all of it," she said. She cupped his cheek in her palm and looked right into his eyes, their browns and golds matching identically unique. "I know you must spend a lot of your time angry at him. Angry at both of us."

"Mom," Oliver said again, felt his heartbeat stagger over itself. _I'll be like you, Carl,_ he though, suddenly. _I'll be brave. I'm afraid but you said I need to be. And I am. So I will. . ._

"Oliver?"

"Mom, I... I'm–"

Oliver's phone rang.

He startled.

"It's Pat," he read the ID, then repeated it, suddenly excited. Rosa smiled pensively, then got up and left him to his phone call, telling him to let her talk to him after they were done. "Pat," Oliver said. "Hey, man."

" _Dude, how's it going?!"_

"Good," Oliver smiled. He tucked his knees under himself and rubbed at the carpet until his fingertips got too hot. "What's up?"

"Guess what I just did?" Patrick sang. Oliver grimaced. There were a many number of things that Patrick De Luca may have just done, and they either stretched from the very impressive to the _very_ disturbing, and so Oliver couldn't really help but feel alarmed.

"What..." he asked. But then: "No... _No,_ Patrick, you didn't."

"Oh, little brother," Patrick cried. "Young sir... Dude. . . I _did._ "

"You monster!" Oliver said, but was laughing.

"Not _me_!" Pat argued, laughing too. "I'm the _hero._ I'm the one who just _captured_ the monster and locked it in my bathroom."

"Poor Scab," Oliver said. But then realised what Patrick had just said. "Wait. . . Your _bathroom_?"

"Yup," Patrick said, then trailed. "Yeah... oh God..." He was suddenly panicking. "How am I gonna go to the bathroom without getting my nuts ripped open?"

"If I were you I'd take chloroform," Oliver joked. "And a shield. And a lightsaber."

Patrick was laughing again.

"I have a boyfriend."

Oliver wasn't sure what had happened. It fell out. He was meant to say, _"I believe in you."_ So – _what the fuck?!_ He bit his lip and pulled at the sleeves of his sweater, listened to Patrick's laughter fizzle out like those fireworks they used to use to spell their names in the air on Independence Day when they were kids.

"And, uh," Oliver went on when the quiet started to scare him. "He's totally cool. And Dad totally hates me for... um, yeah, but, I decided I don't care. And I decided I was going to tell people because he told his mom and her boyfriend and they both took it really well, and I was gonna tell Mom a second ago but you called and I realised I wanted to tell you first... I mean, apart from Penelope, but she knows everything about me anyway, and, actually I guess Em already knows, too – he's got this annoying thing where he sings the kissing song when, uh... anyway, yeah... I'm telling you. Because you're my brother too..." Oliver was trailing. Patrick hadn't made a sound. Oliver decided to keep talking: "One of my favourite brothers actually, so... it'd be really cool if you took it well, too... uh..." _FuckfuckFUCKfuck._ "Pat?"

"Yeah, dude," he said casually. Oliver wondered if he might have just said all that before in his head. But he was out of breath, so he knew that wasn't true. "That's cool," Pat added. "Uh... well. Yeah... You have a boyfriend? I mean, yeah. You have a boyfriend." Oliver nodded even though Patrick couldn't see him. "Wait, _Dad_ hates you?"

"Yeah. He, saw us, at the hospital, together. It got kinda ugly."

"A hospital?" Patrick said. "Dude, have some class."

"We weren't _doing_ anything," Oliver grimaced. "We were just having breakfast. Guess, Dad could just... tell."

Patrick made a _Hmm_ noise like he would say something after it, but what followed was quiet. Quiet quiet quiet.

"Um, last time I checked it's usually you who's better at conversations, man," Oliver said.

"Right, yeah, sorry," Patrick said. "Just, wasn't really expecting, um... You have a boyfriend."

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Patrick said, a little loudly. "Totally, man." He cleared his throat. "Who is he?"

"Um. A guy from school – well, we're not in school anymore. Uh, yeah."

"Does he have a name?"

"Carl?"

"You're not sure?"

"No, no, yeah." Oliver was chucking. "Yes, it's Carl. I'm sure. He's, um..."

"Your boyfriend."

"Yes."

It was ridiculously awkward. But it was a kind of awkward that made Oliver want to laugh hysterically. He was biting his knuckle and scrunching his toes so hard they were cracking.

"I think you should talk to Dad," Patrick said.

"How?" Oliver asked.

"If I were you..." Patrick paused, took a long breath. "I–I don't know what I'd do..."

"He probably thinks it's just a phase. Like usual."

"So what if it is?" Patrick said. "Doesn't make it any less valid."

Oliver smiled. "Pretty sure it's not a phase, man."

"I'm not saying it is," Patrick explained. "I'm saying that whatever Dad thinks, it won't change a thing. He can say whatever he wants and try to figure out why and how and for how long and all that bullshit, but it doesn't make you any less Oliver than you are, you know?"

Oliver wanted to hug his brother. He wanted to kiss his forehead and tell him he loved his big, goofy, four-eyed, douche-bag face and everything that'd just come out of it and ever had come out of it before, but all he managed was a grin into his palm and a weak, "Thanks, man," into the receiver.

"Wait, isn't Carl the guy you got into a fight with?"

"Uh. Yeah."

He could imagine Patrick's frown. "Do I need to deck anybody?"

"Like you could deck anybody."

"You'd be surprised."

"It's cool, man."

"Evidently. I mean, if you're into that, then whatever, right?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "No. We're not. It's just... that day, when it happened I... He – It was just a weird day, okay?"

"Penelope sent me the video. How you manage to end up with someone after a fight like that – I don't know."

"Um, well... the kissing helped. And, everything else."

"Ew," Patrick laughed. "I don't need details."

"I meant about how he and I spent weeks avoiding each other until I finally talked it out with him," Oliver explained, felt the heat in his cheeks. "Jesus." There was a long pause. "But the sex is cool too, though."

He laughed at the way Patrick made a sound like he'd just ran over a cow, but Oliver decided it was pay-back for all of the times Patrick'd told him about his one night stands and stoner parties, and how awful he'd smell after he came home early in school mornings. Sometimes, during Patrick's senior year in high school especially, Oliver would have to wake up early to let him back into the house. He be in the bathroom peeing and he'd suddenly notice, through the window, Patrick sat down on the curb outside with his head hung between his knees. So Oliver would sneak out of the house and help his older brother up to the bathroom, then run the shower while Patrick yacked into the toilet. Sometimes the yacking would be so violent Oliver would have to turn up his music full blast to drown out the noise, and he'd take the full brunt of the reprimand to cover for him on the sole promise that Patrick would _repay him one day_.

"How is that, by the way?" Patrick said then, apparently realising Oliver's reasoning for torture and going along with it to dissatisfy him. Already, it was working, because Oliver's eyes were suddenly bulging.

" _What_?!"

"I mean, like, I always thought of, you know, that _area_ as kinda a no-go, like a one way tract," Patrick went on. "I understand blowjobs from a guy, I guess. Well, no, probably not. But like, the butt? That's just... How is that?"

"Okay, you need to stop. Right now."

Patrick snorted in agreement, and the two brothers talked a little about Patrick's ex-girlfriend who... no, it didn't matter. When the cringe-worthy conversation was over, Patrick said, "Hey, can I talk to Mom?"

"W-wait you're not gonna say anything, are you?"

"Didn't Dad already?" Patrick asked.

"No," Oliver said, and he was spending a lot of effort not to even think of that.

"Oh," Patrick said. "Don't worry. I won't say anything. Swear to God."

"You don't believe in God."

"Then, I swear to probability and logic."

Satisfied, Oliver went to find their mom. She was in the living room watching _X-Men; First Class_ because it was on TV. She paused it when he came in. Oliver sat and listened to her talk to her eldest son. He also took a while to just look at the paused screen of Angel Salvadore, because even without the mutant dragonfly wings she was mesmerising.

While talking to Patrick, Rosa was grinning and wiping her eyes and doing her best to sound like she wasn't close to crying from missing him so much. Oliver wondered if she ever did that to him; talked casually while grinning and crying a little at the same time. He wondered why human beings were strong enough to survive the wilderness and the forces of mother nature and the freaking Ice Age... but when they missed a loved one they were almost frail as paper. It was beautiful, really. Beautiful and fascinating... and brilliantly human.

When she finally hung up, Oliver had sunk to his back on the couch, his toes tucked under the seat cushion she was sat on and his head tipped forward; his jaw against his collarbones in a way that gave him a double chin. He was playing his ukulele (well, Em's now, technically) picking softly against the strings the tune to a Handsome Ghost song he'd taught himself.

"How are you?"

Oliver looked up to her, kept playing. "What?"

"How's the..." She ran her thumb along her arms, then tried to reach over to his sleeve and pull his arm away from his instrument. But Oliver jerked away, felt his face turn red and glared at her like she'd offended him, but stopped, shrugged instead. Rosa hesitated for a long time, sitting back and acting like that hadn't happened. "Your dad told me he'd been helping you."

Oliver almost scoffed, but he managed not to, though he wasn't controlled enough to stop himself from plucking a string a little too hard. Rosa made a noise, like: _Yeah... I didn't believe him either._

"Oliver?"

"Why don't you ever say his name?" he asked then, quickly. He was trying to change the subject but realised he hated this one just as much, still, he kept talking. "I haven't heard you call him by it since the divorce. You always call him, _your dad,_ or _your father... That man._ "

"Oliver," she said softly.

Oliver sighed, "Yeah..."

"How are you?" again.

"I'm _fine,_ Mom," he said, and knew he sounded annoyed but couldn't help it. "I haven't hurt myself, alright?"

"Since how long?"

Oliver shrugged.

"A month?" she guessed hopefully.

Oliver was frowning. He started playing a different song. It was faster and more complicated, and it was a little difficult to move his fingers fast enough with one arm tucked against his chest and the couch. Rosa sighed.

"Three weeks?"

He was still frowning, playing, wishing he could change conversations like he could change a tune.

"Two...?"

"Seventeen hours," Oliver answered, but bit back the: _and two minutes._

Her brow arched, and she looked like she would clasp her hands over her mouth and cry again, but instead she swallowed, asked, "Can I ask why you do it?"

"No," the boy mumbled, and the tune got slower and softer and simpler again.

"Well," she said, swallowed again, "can I tell you that I love you, and that you can talk to me or tell me anything, even if you think it's bad, and that won't ever change."

He did stop playing then, and he stared at the strings on the instrument:

 _G  
C  
E  
A_

 **G** _o ahead and  
_ **C** _ome out because  
_ **E** _verything will be okay_

 _..._

 **A** _h, can't think of a good acronym for this one._

It was lame. But Oliver was desperate and tired enough to trust it, so. . .

"Carl is my boyfriend."

Rosa picked at the skin around her thumb and watched him expectantly. Oliver realised he hadn't said anything yet.

"Thank you," he said instead. "A lot."

She nodded. "So, _do_ you want to tell me anything?"

"I don't think so," he said, and it was true. Because like he'd decided before, Oliver didn't feel like he needed to tell her yet. He and Carl had only been dating for around a week, and things had already been crazy with Em and his father and everything else. So no, Oliver didn't need to come out yet, and in doing so he understood that he wasn't lying to her, or deceiving her, or anybody for that matter. He was just trying to learn to be comfortable in his own skin for once, and that was totally okay.

"Okay," she whispered softly.

Oliver kept playing, and for good measure he said, "Is there anything you want to tell me about?"

Rosa hesitated, then said, "Yes."

Oliver put the ukulele down.

"I met someone," she almost asked.

Oliver blinked.

Rosa blinked back.

"Actually," she said, "I've known him for a few months now... It's not serious, but, well, it's starting to become that. What do you think of that?"

"Um," Oliver said, still blinking.

"Oliver?"

"Does Pat know?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Don't be mad at him. I asked him not to tell you."

Oliver nodded. In truth he didn't know Patrick could keep so many secrets. He wondered how many others he must've had up behind those thick black spectacles of his, like maybe they were geared up like the spy-glasses in movies, like he could use them to scroll through all the people he knew and all their secrets, save them away in files.

"Who is he?" Oliver asked curiously. Something was pulling at his chest, something suspicious and protective and hot-tempered, but he told it it was dumb and to go away. Rosa took a breath. Oliver frowned again. "Mom..."

She smiled, but it was tense and nervous. "His name's Philip." Oliver started to nod, but then she kept talking: "You know him. He was your tutor and History teacher."

His expression dropped. "You're _dating_ Mr. Snake?"

"Blake, Oliver."

He was horrified. . .

" _He_ is an asshole."

"Oliver!" she barked.

"What the hell're you doing dating some psycho nut-job like Mr. Blake?" Oliver snapped back. "He's narcissistic and obnoxious and he'll just be another mistake who doesn't care."

"Not every man I date is a mistake, Oliver."

"Yeah, where's your proof?" he asked flatly, and regretted it immediately.

Rosa went quiet then. They both did. Which was odd. The rare times that they ever did argue, it was always loud. He'd expected her to yell back, to point a finger, maybe even grab a shoe and throw it at his head, but nothing, and her quiet was worse. Her quiet meant that she was hurting, like she was that day in the principles office. Oliver hated it when she went quiet. He hated himself when he did it, too, but there they both were, quiet quiet quiet. . .

"It's not fair," he said finally, snatched his phone back as he made to storm out of the room.

"W... What?" Rosa ordered, furious. " _Why_?"

"Because..." Oliver said, furious too. "You deserved somebody who makes you happy."

She looked puzzled, like she wasn't sure whether she was meant to say thank you or reprimand him, so she did neither: "You don't know him outside the classroom. He does make me happy."

Oliver grimaced, only he'd started crying. "You're meant to be with..."

" _Who_?" she challenged. "Oliver?" The teenager sobbed. "Oliver, your father didn't make me happy."

"I know!"

" _Shh,_ " she hissed. "Em's asleep."

"This is bullshit," Oliver growled. "How could you date someone like him after everything you've already put up with?" None of it made sense, even after this long, and so the only conclusion Oliver could come up with was for her to not date anybody at all, and that was how it had worked since the divorce. The realisation that Rosa even wanted to be with anybody else seemed to be the same as proving that the sky wasn't really blue.

"Go to bed," Rosa said irritably. "I'll talk to you more about this tomorrow. Give you time to sleep on this."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"Go to bed, Oliver."

* * *

They talked in the morning. But Oliver wasn't sure it counted as _talking_ when at certain points their voices got so loud Em would come into the kitchen and shush them, announcing that he and his consultants weren't done with their meeting yet, whatever that meant, but it didn't matter anyway. Oliver grabbed his beanie and pulled on his sneakers and boarded all the way to the Florist.

"Son, do you know what day it is?" Dale asked when he walked into the florist and saw the boy sweeping.

"Saturday."

"Correct me if I'm wrong but you don't work weekends."

"I thought I'd help out," Oliver shrugged, and continued sweeping the floor like routine. He scooped it into the dust-pan and put it in the trash, then went about composting the flowers that were withered on display. "You don't have to pay me for it."

Dale looked him up and down, but nodded in relent. "I got in here. Y'can go help Beth in the orchard."

When Oliver went out he had to take a moment to take in how much it had changed in a week. The orchard had ripened and small, shiny, dark red circles hung in bunches from every branch he could see. But the smell. It blew him away. He went to a tree, bucket hanging from his elbow, and simply sat on a branch for a few minutes inhaling so much he felt dizzy. Sweet and fresh and alive; that was how the cherries smelled. It was breathtaking.

His bucket rattled and Oliver startled.

Beth appeared from under him, grinned and dropped her hand, "Y'gonna pick any or are ya jus' gonna sniff'm all mornin'?"

"Hey, Bethy," he said, and started harvesting. Her bucket was full so she gave him a friendly salute and headed into the florist, then came back out to keep picking. By then Oliver's bucket was almost full. He suddenly wasn't sure if there was an awful lot he liked more than sitting in a cherry tree surrounded by its aroma, but then he remembered the things he and Carl got up to when they were alone and giddy and undressed and realised there were at least a few things he liked just a little more. Regardless, cherry picking made all the arguing from this morning wash away. It made him glad that he'd chosen to skateboard here instead of hide himself away in his bedroom like he wanted to do originally. He'd actually gone to Carl's house first, but Whinny answered the door and told the boy that her grandson was at work, she invited him inside and Oliver spent almost an hour letting her tell the story about her grandfather in the war, and Carl was right, it _was_ a pretty cool story. But after a while Oliver finished his coffee and thanked Judith for the little messy braid she'd put in his hair, and then he said goodbye to them both and came to the florist.

"How was Independence day?" Beth asked him after a few minutes.

"Oh, um, well, actually it kind of sucked."

"Oh?" Beth said. She was in the tree next over, using a ladder, unlike Oliver who was stretched across three conveniently grown branches, on his back, reaching up for the fruit. "Why's that?"

"My little brother," he explained –Oliver had gotten to know Beth so well that talking to her was an easy experience now, "he spent a few days in hospital after he decided it was a good idea to _indulge_ his nut allergy."

"Oh my gosh."

"Yeah. He's okay now though. Me and a friend met the ambulance half way to the hospital. Dad was at work so I had to stay with Em."

"You were alone?" she asked. "Gosh that must've been awful."

"Yeah," Oliver said, hesitated. "But not on the last night. My boyfriend came up to keep me company, which helped."

"Good," she said, didn't bat an eye-lid in such a way Oliver wondered if she'd heard him right, but realised it really didn't matter either way and smirked at the cherries.

"How was your weekend?" he asked.

"Great. Everybody came home. I got to see my nephew and nieces. Daddy, Glenn and the rest of the guys set up a fireworks display. Almost caught the barn alight."

"Jesus," Oliver said, laughed.

"It was fine. Shawn put the hose on it."

A little while later Dale called out. Oliver looked around through the leaves and fruit, saw the old man leaning out of the back door.

"Yeah?"

"Need you to man the store," he said. "Gotta drive Mrs. B to the graveyard."

Oliver climbed down and took over the shop for a while. Around lunch time was the busiest time in the day, so Oliver was nervous. When four cars pulled into the parking lot in the time-span of fifteen minutes, Oliver was relieved when at least a third went into the grave-makers, but then realised he shouldn't really be glad about that because it most likely meant someone had died, and so to make up for his own narcissism he tried to push himself to be especially nice to the people who _did_ come into the florist; picking out flowers that would look nice with each other –apparently Oliver had gotten quite good at flower arranging. One lady called him a _sweetie pie,_ and Oliver swallowed all of his impulse control not to leap away when she pinched his cheek. But anyway, after a while they left with their bouquets and flower arrangements.

For a while Oliver had been very aware that Dale's hat was sat atop of the cash machine. He'd been resisting temptation the whole time, but with the lack of distraction from customers anymore, Oliver couldn't help himself. So he pulled off his beanie and switched it. It was oddly satisfying; wearing Dale's hat, like it held every story the man had floating around in there, and with every second Oliver left it on his head the more and more wise he felt, somehow. Like Dale was rubbing off on him. He grinned up at the cream brim of the fisherman's hat, saw a smear of white paint and was sure there was some kind of funny story behind it.

The bell rang as the door was pushed open.

Oliver yanked the hat off of his head, ruffling his hair, and he tried not to look like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have and rested his elbows on the counter. Dale's hat was like Dale's property. Like Oliver's hat was Oliver's property. Like Canada and the United States of America were two different nations. Oliver felt the thrill of trespassing and almost getting caught, like stealing a pizza bike, like skipping school to go to Taco Bell... like fooling around in a deserted library parking lot at the dead of night.

A teenage girl walked into the store.

"Lizzie."

She grinned, "Hey. Heard you worked here."  
"Yeah," he said, and felt confident enough to re-sit Dale's hat again. "How's it going?"

"Good. Dad and Mika're next door. Our grandpa died."

"Oh," he said, "that sucks."

"Yeah..." She gently ran her thumb across a yellow flower petal. "Didn't know him much but everybody's pretty sad about it."

Oliver was about to ask if he could help her. But he suddenly realised he didn't really need to. Lizzie seemed quite happy to look around the displays, stepping slowly and carefully, tiptoeing every few strides when she'd pause. Her hair was braided over her shoulder with a little pink bow clip to hold back a few shorter strands on her fringe. She was wearing a patterned long sleeve and a patchy waist coat with different patterns and prints on it, and she wore some khaki pants and had a pair of cowgirl boots on. She looked over the Tulips and Roses and Gentiana and Forget Me Nots, and Oliver couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself, as vain as it sounds.

"Lizzie?" a the second girl said. She wore a white T-shirt with a unicorn on it.

"Hey, Mika."  
"Oliver!" the thirteen year old gasped. She ran around the till to hug him and Oliver heard her giggle into his shoulder. "You haven't been around to babysit for so long!"  
"I've been at my dad's a lot. Sorry."

She shrugged, "It's cool. Mom and Dad just drag us to dinner with them now." Then she turned to Lizzie. "Come on, Dad's waiting for us," she told to her big sister. "We gotta go."

"I was just looking at the flowers."

"Well hurry up," she told her.

Oliver got up and cut two small Forget Me Nots flower buds from a bunch, put each behind Lizzie and Mika's ears and told them both to have a nice day, and they left the florist. It was as he was going back to his seat that Dale entered the building without the boy noticing. He stood and grinned and crossed his arms, but frowned in time for Oliver to startle out of his skin when the boy finally did notice him.

He yanked off the fishing hat, mumbled, "Sorry, Mr. Horvarth."

Dale grunted grumpily but couldn't help his chuckle as the boy handed the hat back to him. "Thanks for keepin' up the place," he said.

"No problem."

Dale grabbed the stool in the corner. He'd usually use it for tending to the flowers when his back would play up. It scraped against the floor as he dragged it in front of the counter and took a seat opposite the boy. He crossed his arms and smiled. It took Oliver a moment to notice.

"Erm," Oliver said when he did.

More grinning.

"Sir..."

"Son..."

Another, "Erm."

"Do you want to tell me why you really came in today?"

Now, despite being Oliver's boss, the relationship they seemed to share often surprised people. Even Oliver sometimes. Dale would make inappropriately tasteful jokes, or he'd buy Oliver (and the others) snacks during lunch breaks, or he'd give them a free bouquet just for the hell of it. Once he'd even gotten Oliver to fill in bank details because the old man had forgotten his glasses. Even so, Oliver wasn't sure if what happened this morning was appropriate to share with him. But then again, it was more because Oliver didn't really want to, or rather, he didn't want it to be a thing at all in the first place.

He shrugged.

"Come on, son," Dale groaned. "We're both men here."

Oliver looked up to him and smirked. "It's not really a big deal." Dale didn't say anything, neither did he budge, so Oliver relented. It was a sigh, and then: "My mom's got a new boyfriend and I guess I kind of overreacted about it."

Dale let out a long soft _ahh..._ noise that made Oliver feel about twelve years old. " _I_ get it."

"You do?"

"She's your mom. It's normal for you to feel protective."

"Yeah," Oliver said, then leant forward on the counter. "I mean, it's not so much that she's dating anyway, it's that she's dating my old Tutor. It's _weird._ "

Dale's eyebrows came up, but he didn't agree.

"What?" Oliver asked, insecure, all of a sudden.

"Is that really what's bothering you 'bout it all?"

Oliver sank back into his seat and shrugged, looking at the poster on the counter with the sorry puppy and its _'eated'_ flower. He frowned at it.

"Look, Oliver," Dale started. Oliver knew it was going to be a lecture so he braced himself. "Your ma's gonna date. There's nothing you can do about that because she has every right to do what she wants. Just like you or I do. That's a given. Okay?" The boy nodded. He felt like he was talking to his dad. No, wait, that's not what it felt like. Oliver actually _wanted_ to listen to Dale, to learn from him, which in truth surprised him more than anything. "And whether this _Tutor_ guy works out or not isn't what's important. What's important is that your mother's happy, and that you let her _be_ happy." Oliver was about to argue, but Dale cut him off. "Is she happy with him?"

"..."

"Is she?"

"She said she was. But–"

"No but," Dale told him, pointed a knuckle. Oliver looked at it and grimaced. "Not with this, alright? You gotta suck up your resentment and deal with it. Whatever pass-papers or assignments you missed in his class, no matter how many detentions he gave you."

"He only confiscated my cell."

"Doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that your mother's happy and that you learn to compromise."

"Compromise?" Oliver said. It was meant to be an agreement, but came out a complaint.

"Yeah," Dale grinned. "See, everybody's gotta find their compromise one way or another. And it'll happen again and again all through your life. That's how it works, get it?"

"I guess," Oliver said slowly. Dale smiled, nodded, then pointed to the yellow and white money box on the counter beside him. "Cancer research?" Oliver said, and when Dale nodded expectantly Oliver added, "What about it?"

"My wife," Dale said. "She had it in her cervix. Died almost seven years ago."

Oliver pursed his lips. _Shit._

"When she was gone I didn't know what to do," Dale said. "I'd spent all this time trying to do everything I could to save her. Sent her half way across the country to do it. But she was ready to go. She told me. And I had to accept that, and when she was gone I spent a few years figuring out what to do with myself, and I was _so_ angry. But I found this place, and now I donate all I can to stopping this awful thing that took the most important person in my life away from me."

Oliver watched him, but didn't have any words of use. But then again, he also knew he didn't have to say anything at all.

"You see, _this_ is my compromise, Oliver," Dale explained... "It's time for you to find yours."

Then Dale started telling Oliver a story about a watch that was passed down through generations, something about unhelpful mausoleums of hope and not remembering but forgetting time for a moment every now and then as not to spend too much breath trying to conquer it, and at the end of Oliver's shift Dale gave him his money despite the boy insisting he didn't want it, and when Oliver got home he didn't apologise to his mother or tell her he was happy for her like he'd planned, but instead just quietly told her he thought it would be cool if she invited Philip over sometime in the week, and although she was a little taken off guard she was grateful, and Oliver figured it was the best he could do right now.

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _ **cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: July** **13** **th** **2015  
Time: 16:48  
Subject: Emergency**

The Blakes are coming.

* * *

It was Monday evening and the dinner was starting at 6:00PM. Oliver was sly enough to casually mention that Carl would be joining them, too, in such a way that Rosa didn't protest to it, and that was only possible because for 1. Rosa was far too busy trying to settle Em and not panic about the whole thing in the first place, and 2. Oliver was cooking the meal, and seeing as Oliver's cooking skills were about as advanced as a blind dog trying to see colour, he needed the help. So, with the single email –as seen above– Carl arrived exactly twelve minutes later, armed with a pen behind his ear, a flannel shirt buttoned up to his collar, and a tube of tomato purée in his holster –sorry, _pocket_.

They got to work.

"Number twenty-two," Carl grinned at one point. " _Cook a meal._ " He crossed the kitchen and Oliver grunted when he smeared sauce over his nose. Her rubbed it off while Carl took out their bucket list and cross it off. "Check."

"How many more do we have left?"

"Eight," Carl answered, pocketing the paper. "Seven once I finish Butterfly Lion."  
" _Ouch_!" Oliver winced when he was mixing too fast and some mince meat splashed at his hand. It burned. " _Shit._ " He ran his hand under the tap and Carl took over mixing. "Thanks, man. Anyway, how many pages do you have left?"

"Only a few," Carl answered. "I like it. Kinda just... feels good, reading it. Y'know?"

"I know," Oliver said, and was about to start fanboying over the novel but a knock came at the front door. Oliver's stomach barrelled to his throat. Rosa answered it. Oliver held his breath when he heard his ex-Tutor's low voice greeting her. Carl noticed, and in that moment decided it was a good idea to slip both of his hands into Oliver's back pockets and squeeze. Oliver gasped and swung around in startle, and Carl regarded him seriously despite what he'd just done, then jerked his chin to the kitchen door and told him to go say hi. Oliver glared at him, but did as he was told.

The house was a lot cleaner and better decorated by now. All the painting was done and there were only a few things in the bathrooms that needed attention, and so Rosa was as comfortable as she ever would be. She would still put odd objects like keys or letters into bureau drawers.

They were in the hallway, all four of them. Emilio, Rosa, Philip and Penny. Penny Blake was Philip's sixteen year old daughter. Oliver was still in the doorway, watching Rosa and Philip talk. Rosa's eyes were big and nervous and mature, and Philip's were focussed and friendly and _okay-ish –_ Oliver wasn't sure what that actually meant but he just didn't want to use the term charming.

Again, Carl noticed the boy stalling and prodded him in the place on his back just under the end of his ribcage. But Oliver was ticklish, badly, and in his current state of mood the first thing he could think of to do to stop Carl was to elbow him in the chest, only he'd done it so hard that Carl grunted loudly and almost doubled forward. Oliver startled, apologised, because he really didn't mean to do it so hard, but Carl shook his head and pretended he wasn't suddenly throbbing with pain, instead waved and said hi to everybody who was now suddenly staring at them across the hallway.

"Uh, hey, Mr. Blake," Oliver said, waved too, but his hand refused to do it properly and instead stuffed itself into his jeans pocket after a second, like its own attempt at refusal.

"Hello, Oliver," Philip said civilly, and shook his hand when Oliver was passive aggressively encouraged to step forward by a pair of Rosa's pressing eyes. "It's good to see you again."

 _Is it?_

"You, too," Oliver made himself smile.

Philip grinned back.

God, it was painful.

Oliver glanced at Penny when he caught her rolling her eyes, only when Oliver saw her he wasn't quite sure it was the right person his mother had told him about. Penny's hair was short and dark auburn in colour and sat up in a neat quiff. She wore boy's clothes; grey jeans, button up dark blue flannel and a dark grey sweater over it. Oliver didn't notice any signs of a chest despite Penny's age, but when she looked at him he could just recognise the resemblance to the photo on Philip's desk.

 _Whatever,_ Oliver thought, _I don't like either them._

"Supper's ready," he said to his mom, and held in his disapproval. She frowned and noticed anyway. Regardless, the boys went and served up the spaghetti.

Dinner was okay.

Oliver had done surprisingly well on the pasta, like, crazy well, actually, and he was so proud of it that he might've even blushed when _Philip_ praised him on it, and so Oliver decided that he didn't _totally_ hate this, only mildly.

It was mostly just Philip and Rosa talking. Oliver and Carl ate in silence unless they were spoken to, and only communicated with each other through short glances and under-table knee nudges, or strokes, but those had to stop after the first few times because Oliver kept making weird noises. Em ate his food pensively, and his eyes would keep snapping up to Philip whenever he would speak and he wouldn't look away until the stranger stopped, and if Philip still didn't stop, Em would growl like a territorial dog. Rosa would shush him and apologise, and Philip would say it was fine and just try not to pay too much attention to the little boy. Penny didn't say a word, even when she was spoken to. At first Oliver just guessed she was a brat, but then, after long enough, Oliver would notice the flinch or uncomfortable swallows when anybody said _she_ or _her_ , and so... Oliver wondered if Penny was even a _she_ at all.

Oliver and Carl asked to be excused when they finished their food. At first Rosa told them to stay – rather aggressively, but after long enough without them contributing to conversation once, Oliver offered to do the dishes since everybody was done eating, and so she let them both go, and the two spent a while in the kitchen cleaning up and avoiding the fluff that Oliver didn't want to think about was happening in the living room.

A while later Penny walked into the kitchen, stopped, suddenly, and stared. Carl was led across the corner table, you see, and Oliver was lent over him giggling and stacking slices of bread across his face.

"You look like a sandwich," Oliver said. "I didn't know it was possible for somebody to look cute with their face between bread."

What Carl said he'd rather put his face between instead is not a sentence that needs to be written in words, but it made Penny's eyes bulge out of skull, and the boys heard the gasp of shock –or horror– and they both startled magnificently. Oliver span around, and Carl sat bolt upright, four or five bread slices flinging off of him so fast that Penny ducked and held up a carton of juice in what looked like surrender.

"Your brother won't finish it," the teenager told them, swallowed and seemed to concentrate. Then, for some reason, Penny's voice lowered slightly. "Dad told me to put this in the trash for Rosa."

 _Might as well take us out, too,_ Oliver thought self-reprimandingly, but held his tongue, pointed at the cupboard under the sink and pretended his cheeks weren't burning. Carl had gotten off the chair and muttered something about going to the bathroom as he left the kitchen, wiping bread crumbs off of his nose.

"He, uh," Oliver said, because he realised what Penny had just seen was something that probably needed context. "He doesn't like sandwiches. I was... showing him they weren't all that bad."

Penny's looked him up and down and then nodded slowly, turning to leave.

"Mom doesn't know," Oliver said then, suddenly. "Yet."

Penny turned back and frowned, "What?"

"I haven't told her yet," Oliver said, "about, uh, me and Carl." He thought of Enid and knew she would be proud of the bluntness. Penny was still frowning, but nodded, hunching a little. Oliver decided to honour Enid a little more: "But I guess Carl and I aren't the only ones in the closet, huh?"

Penny looked up, and the frown disappeared for a second before it came back worse than before. "I'm not in the closet." Oliver heard the way Penny's voice lowered again, and realised that it was done on purpose. "I mean, I-I am," the teen said. "But it's just... n... nobody's letting me out."

Oliver nodded, rubbed his nose, tried not to be awkward. "So like, he, him, his?" he asked.

Penny paused, blinked, then nodded his head. His cheeks were suddenly redder than Oliver had ever seen a skin colour before. Oliver was humane, so smiled and held out his hand. Rosa and Philip must have been nervous when they arrived because they hadn't actually introduced their children at all.

"I'm Oliver, by the way."

"Pe... Parker, uh, please?"

Oliver smiled and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Parker."

Parker Blake tried to stifle his smile but choked on his own breath when the stifled smile became a stifled laugh instead. "Thanks," he said, "you, too."

"Oliver," Carl said, poking his head into the kitchen. "You gotta help your mom. Something's up with Em."

Oliver sighed and went with the two boys into the dining room.

"Emi," Rosa said impatiently. "Emi, _calmati._ "

He growled... at Philip.

"Emi," Rosa said again. "Stop it."

Then Emilio started crying.

Rosa looked like she would cry too, and was about to stand up and take Em away but Oliver was already there for her. Em fought against him, thrashing and wriggling against his big brother while he lugged the little boy out of the room and up the staircase. When they were gone Rosa still looked like she would burst, overwhelmed by everything. Carl had never seen her like this.

"Uh," he said, and saw how unbearably awkward everything in the dining room was. "I should... go... with them... uh... yeah." He went upstairs, heard Rosa apologising to the Blakes. When he got into Em's bedroom Oliver was struggling to get him to sit on his own bed, and the little boy was screaming hysterically. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Oliver said.

"Do you think it's Philip?"

"Maybe," Oliver said, grunted and grabbed Emilio's foot before it connected to his groin. "But he's done this before. He just gets like this. Em, stop! He'll get bored and stop after a while."

"Like what?" Carl had to duck when a toy Captain America shield was thrown at his head.

"Angry," Oliver answered, and wrestled to hold the little boy's hands still. When he tried again to shush him the little boy thrashed his arms out, escaping, and Oliver yelped when the little boy's fingernails dug deep into his cheek. " _Ack_! You little shit!"

Em just cried more, and when he saw blood swell on Oliver's skin he screamed.

"You know what?" Oliver shouted at him. "Go screw yourself!"

Carl had to step back when Oliver marched across the room and ripped a towel from the place it was drying on the edge of the desk. He held it to his jaw, then pulled it away after a second. There were small bloody dots blotched all over it already.

They heard the desperate, "Just a minute," from Rosa downstairs in the dining room, and then watched her rush into the bedroom. "What is going on in here?"

"The little gargoyle scratched me," Oliver hissed, and when Rosa went to fuss over the child, Oliver got so angry that he marched out of the room and slammed the bathroom door closed behind him. Em fought against Rosa so badly that she had to hold him still, locking his wrists in her hands to stop him from scratching her. When he bit the back of her hand she yelped so loudly that Carl startled.

"Rosa," Philip said, and was walking up the stairs. "Do you want us to go?"

"No," she almost cried. "No, I'm sorry." She rushed to leave the room, and then Carl was suddenly left alone with Em. The little boy was furious. His tiny hands gripped the edge of his bed so hard that his knuckles were white and red. He was trembling, and every few moments he would let out awful moaning sobs that shook him right to the core. Carl wanted to leave, but Rosa was right outside, trying to talk to Philip, and so the teenager took his chances and used his foot to carefully push a Lego truck towards the four year old. The boy sobbed at it, glaring for a moment, but he quietened a little, miserably. Carl didn't move, the same way you don't move if somebody aims a gun at you in fear you might lose an eye-ball.

"I'm sorry," Rosa said outside the room. "He's not used to this. So many people in the house."

"It's alright," Philip said.

"Maybe you should go," Rosa said empathetically. "God, I'm sorry."

"No problem," he reassured her. Carl didn't see it but the man leant forward and kissed her. Oliver saw it. He walked out of the bathroom in the same moment, and for a second he frowned at the floor and held his breath until the two noticed him and pulled apart. Oliver stepped aside and Philip headed downstairs. After a few minutes he and Parker had left on as good a term as possible given such a turn of events, and Carl almost left too but was convinced to stay when Em had calmed down enough to watch cartoons in the living room.

Rosa took Oliver aside and spoke to him privately in the kitchen, and she spent a few moments thanking Oliver for the meal, but Oliver knew she was stalling.

"I'm sorry I yelled at Em," he said, but realised that wasn't what was bothering her either. . . "Mom?"

"I booked an appointment for Emi at the doctor," she said.

"What?"

"Do you remember when you were a kid," she said, "and you got so upset about keeping your room clean that I got the doctor to run some psychotherapy tests on you? To see if you had OCD or Autism or ADHD or Bi-polar?"

"Yes," Oliver said, frowned. "I didn't."

"I thought Em was just a little like you," she sighed. "But he's getting worse."

"Mom, he's four. He's going to be a little overbearing sometimes."

"No," Rosa said, and she rubbed the bite mark on her hand. "This isn't like that. I had to pick him up early from school at least once every week for months before Summer. I can't get him to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time and he's started getting up in the middle of the night. I found him emptying his dresser the other day at four am. He's mean to other kids and he's hurting us as well now, and I don't know what to do to help him..."

"He's not mad," Oliver said curtly. "He's just..."

"This isn't just a case of _high spirited_ anymore, Oliver. We've got to take this seriously."

He was still frowning, and another part of him wanted to cry suddenly. "When did you make the appointment?"

"I rang them Friday. The appointment's for tomorrow."

Oliver looked at the back door, but didn't say anything else.

"Oliver?"

He looked at her.

"Please try to understand."

"I do. I do," Oliver said honestly. "Just... don't let them tell him he's wrong. He's not wrong. He's just... different."

"I promise."

* * *

 **Notes**

I'm sorry about the eye-ball reference...

Literally made Oliver get a job as a Florist just so that Lizzie could say that. I'm a monster.

Thank you AwkwardlyMeOli for the inspiration for Parker Blake. I feel like I don't write enough transgender fiction, except Quinn, but they aren't a definitive gender and so here's where I'll start :) (also I'm still working on Charlie/Charlotte Smith - still haven't decided xI)

Also, special thanks to Fede for the Italian culture and language help (SERIOUSLY NEVER TRUST GOOGLE TRANSLATE) and for informing me that Emilio's short name should actually be Emi xD but we'll just pretend that all along it's just always been only Rosa who calls him it yas ok cool. ALSO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE FANART - find it in the Stale M&M's Tumblr tag, or on his awesome blog **train-wreck101**.

There was a lot of stuff in this but I'm slightly too lazy to talk about it rn so props to you if you noticed the rest and thanks for reading, bye, love you all, have a great dayyy.

As always,  
Happy reading : _)_


	22. Part 3: Oh

**JRH** XD Thanks! And God, I know! How ironic!

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** I honestly love you and your reviews xD Thank you x

 **the walking shadow** thank you you're amazing xx ugh thanks.

 **The Sorrowful Deity** ahhh okay! I'll see what I can do xD

 **OLIVERYOU'RETHEBESTOKAY?OKAY.** ← enough said. P.S. I love you. P.P.S. You are so amazing.

 **federxck** I love you, too ^.^ *blushes

 **Natsumo Fujoshit you** Haaaaaa, this would be amazing xD thank you! I don't think I should have put that bit with the sandwiches xD There are a lot of things in my writing where I don't think I should have put stuff xD but I'm impulsive and I don't think about that shit when I'm laughing too hard at it so whatever xD

 **Jetpack Sunrise** It genuinely astounds me that "I play with satellites," doesn't suffice. This should be pick up line enough, right!? And thank you ^.^

* * *

Running into Benny Sansa was one of the more peculiar events that happened between July and August.

It was July twenty-second, a little over a week since the Blakes had eaten at the De Luca's, and Carl, Parker and Oliver were coming back from the cemetery. Parker had been spending a lot of time with them lately. Oliver especially. For a while, Oliver thought it was more of an _I'll put up with you you put up with me_ deal, something to be endured and put up with –which was pretty much how Carl said it was between him and Andre sometimes, but then Oliver was soon understanding that Parker actually enjoyed being in his company, and that furthermore _he_ actually enjoyed being in Parker's. (When Oliver told this to Carl, he, too, admitted that he didn't _totally_ detest Andre most of the time). But anyway, Oliver and Parker fought food-pun battles and oxymoron wars for hours, and had still not managed to set the house on fire, and the last time Rosa and Oliver left the Blake's household Parker felt it necessary to actually _hug_ Oliver.

Today they had gone to put flowers down for Parker's mom.

It was a car crash, five years ago.

Parker said that his dad was working so couldn't take him to see her, and mentioned that it had been a few months since they'd gone to see her and that he didn't like to go alone, so Oliver offered. Parker said he'd never gone to see her grave with his friends. Only his dad.

It was a quick stop.

While Carl and Oliver sat on the bench under the shade of the maple tree, Parker arranged the flowers that Oliver had brought from work, setting them up under the grave that read:

 _'Kiara Blake  
1974 – 2009  
Mother, Wife, Daughter, and friend  
Rest in piece, beloved, always'_

On their way home, Benny saw them walking and made a B-line like greeting old friends, with his arms out and a wide grin on his face. Parker assumed they _were_ friends and politely kept to himself while the older guy sauntered over, but he noticed the way Oliver and Carl both tensed up. Benny walked right between them, catching his ex-classmate's shoulders so hard that Carl fell against the stone wall and Parker had to dodge out of the way. Oliver barely stopped himself from staggering out into the road.

"Screw off, man," he said, and didn't fully realise he _had_ until Carl had to jump between them before Benny would have _really_ shoved Oliver into the road. There was a school bus coming, driving old people into Atlanta that left every Thursday over Summer break, and the last thing anybody needed was a teenage boy splattered across the asphalt.

"Stop," Carl said sternly, "alright, Ben? C'mon, can't we just get past this crap?"

Benny gritted his teeth. He probably wanted to leave anyway. He looked tired. But still, he said, "Pretty sure I asked you to do something back in the library, Carly?"

"Let it _go_ ," he growled, pushing past. But it was clear Benny wouldn't cooperate. His fist closed against Carl's collar. He tried not to fight back in the hope Benny would lose interest, but it didn't work very well. "Ben, quit it!"

"Get off him," Oliver warned, raising an arm carefully to Benny's wrist, but he swung around and pushed him away.

"This is between me and your boyfriend," he goaded.

"And I'm telling you to leave my boyfriend alone," Oliver spat back angrily. He saw the confusion on Benny's face and made an effort to ignore it. "I mean, come on, man? Just – just _go home_."

Benny stepped back and laughed, but it was tight and forced. "Are you kidding me?"

Parker's shoulders were bunched up like a scolded dog, his eyes snapping nervously between them.

"So what?" Carl asked casually, straightening his shirt.

"Yeah right," Benny said, and he suddenly looked embarrassed and disappointed but like he was trying too hard not to be. It seemed that it wasn't fun if they weren't feeling as shitty as he was.

Carl frowned. Oliver, too. They hadn't told a lot of people yet and this wasn't how they wanted word to start going around. Benny would be cruel about it, and as much as Carl and Oliver knew that some people would be, they weren't all that eager to hear it. But then Oliver decided he didn't care, all of a sudden. He was thinking of Parker and all the things they'd been talking about lately –"Just be yourself"– and –"You can't be brave unless your scared"– and how much of his own words he would be throwing up unless he lived up to them now, so he kind of just turned around, and there wasn't an awful lot Carl could do while Oliver grabbed hold of his sleeve and kissed him. It was so quick that Carl was still startling from it by the time Oliver had turned back to Benny. In truth, Oliver probably could have handled that a little less dramatically, but Benny's eyes were wide and his cheeks shone, so Oliver figured he'd gotten the message across.

There isn't really another way to explain what happened next other than Benny just walked away, albeit, rather confused and awkward and impressed at the same time, but whatever, he was leaving.

Oliver's heart was racing.

Parker was laughing his ass off.

"Shut up."

Parker pointed. "That was... the _cheesiest_ cliché... I've _ever_ seen!"

Carl flicked his ear.

" _Ack_! Dude!"

Oliver laughed when Carl tried to do it again, but Parker was quick enough to smack his hand away, so Carl took Oliver's hand, and the three walked home.

* * *

The next day Carl's college reply letter came in through the mail. He ran all the way to Oliver's house and found the spare key in the hanging flower pot, then let himself in and moaned nothing with real words to Rosa and Em as he passed the living room. Rosa only stuttered in shock for a second before saying hi. Over the month Carl had been spending a lot of time with her family. The boys took Em and Judith to the play park and Oliver would come home late from work because he and Carl would hang out with their friends. He would grin down at his phone and when she would ask why, her son would just say, "Emails," and she would know who they were form. When they actually were at home, they would spend a lot of time in Oliver's bedroom.

Carl got to Oliver's door and knocked frantically.

"Go away, Em," Oliver said from inside.

Carl knocked again. He had the envelope in his mouth so he couldn't speak. When he still wasn't invited inside he kept knocking.

"I'm masturbating."

"Well knock it off," Carl hissed, walking into the room regardless. He wasn't exactly dreading what he would find but it turned out that Oliver wasn't doing that anyway, instead he was rather deadishly laid across his floor, suffering in his own mental turmoil. "Oliver," Carl said, then said it again, and again. Too fast. Too happy. Too scared and too excited. He crouched and flapped the white envelope in front of Oliver's chest. Then realised what he was doing. "Wait, why're you on the floor? No, wait, look, I got my college letter! Wait. What?"

Oliver's hand raised to Carl's eye-line to show two envelopes.

"You got yours, too?" Carl asked curiously. His eyes widened. "You got your letters, too!"

"M-hm."

"Did you open'm? I haven't opened mine. Not yet. Neither've you. I can see that. Sorry. I dunno why I asked you that. Sorry. I'm rambling. I'm jus' nervous. Sorry. We should open'm. But not here. Your floor doesn't seem very lucky."

"There's no such thing as luck," Oliver told the ceiling. "It's all probability and–"

"Oliver, for your own good, shut up."

He did. He put his hand on his sternum and reminded his heart to stop trying to escape.

"Wait," Carl frowned, "why would you tell Em you're jerking off?"

"I didn't," Oliver said. "He thinks it means studying."

"Oh."

"School's gonna be confusing for him."

Carl snickered and pulled Oliver's knee up to lean against it. He smirked down at him and said, "That's awful," and Oliver shrugged. Mixing the two words was sort of a brotherly tradition, started by Patrick, so if Oliver had had to go through the same trauma second through forth grade until his teachers took him aside and confronted him, then he figured he owed it to himself to get his own back on Emilio. Though, he realised that ending him up in hospital was probably bad enough, and to top it all off, the new diagnosis of ADHD had been dis-heartening enough, and so, Oliver decided in that moment that he would explain to Emilio the difference between studying and masturbation before he started school, but then again, he realised that the latter topic wasn't really something a soon-to-be five year old should learn about yet, so. . .

"I think I fucked up," Oliver continued aloud.

"Worry about it later."

Oliver was pulled from the floor and dragged out of his bedroom. When Rosa stopped them before they left, the boys were so caught up with either blocking their anxiety out or letting it swallow them whole that they'd forgotten to stop holding hands. She looked down at the tangle of skin and paper and frowned, then didn't –her eyebrows arched– but by then the boys had let go already.

"Oliver?" she asked.

"Letters," he said quickly, holding up both of his.

"From college," Carl added, raising his, too.

"Oh," she said, looked at their hands again but paid more attention to the paper. "Oh!" Then looked at their hands again. Their little fingers were curled around one another, at Carl's reflex. But then again Oliver hadn't resisted. ". . . Oh."

"Mom?"

" _Si,_ " she replied quietly. Rosa wasn't sure what he would ask, she had an idea, so she braced for it –this, _said,_ idea– but she definitely did not expect him to point to the door.

"We wanna, you know, go, now," he said.

"Yes," she mumbled. Then snapped out of it. " _Si! Andare!_ " She faltered. They were already at the door. " _Ti amo_!"

Quickly, Oliver stepped back to her and kissed her cheek. " _Ti amo anch'io,_ " he replied, and tried not to think about anything when Carl took his hand again and pulled him along the side walk.

Then they ran.

They hadn't really decided where.

They just did.

They eventually stopped outside of Town Hall, of all places, and sat down on a bench in a quiet private sitting area in the shade under the big cougar statue. Under its paws, in the stone, was engraved: _'King County, a very grateful town_. . .' It was grateful because during the war every man living here got to come home.

–" _Spent all that time pretending they were dead,"_ Whinny had told Oliver that day, _"they made it out alive."_

"I think we're gonna do it."

"We already did do it," Oliver mumbled. "Several times."

" _No,_ " Carl rolled his eyes and grimaced. He'd come to realise that Oliver's casual immaturity both amused and exhausted him at the best of times, but right now it mostly just exhausted him, even though he was also laughing and suddenly pressing his forehead to Oliver's jaw to kiss his Adam's apple. "I mean all of it," Carl explained into it. "I mean, I think we're going to finish our bucket list."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We've been pretty busy, huh?"

"Uh-huh," Carl murmured into skin and brought his hands up to hold onto it. "And, I think... um."

Oliver pushed Carl to sit up when he was getting too into the kissing than the conversation. Carl resisted at first, and Oliver almost let him, because even though Oliver had never said so (he didn't really need to) getting kissed on the neck did a flurry of strange and brilliant things to his sanity, but then a group of business people left the building behind them and the boys had to pull apart. They, luckily, weren't noticed anyway, but still, it was far too close for comfort.

"I think we're going to go to college," Carl explained eventually once the suits were gone and Oliver had stopped laughing under his breath. "I think we're gonna make it."

Oliver focussed on him then, felt the adrenaline, all of a sudden.

"And, I've never felt this sure about it before and it's scaring me, you know?" Carl admitted, squinting. Oliver was nodding. "Because, you know, I could also be totally wrong, too. And, Oliver, not knowing is scaring me more than the yes or the no, you know?"

"I think I'm having a panic attack," Oliver said levelly, only his whole body was suddenly trembling and he was fairly sure that every organ inside of him had run away back _before_ Carl had arrived at his house. In fact, he was pretty sure that he was still in his bedroom under the covers that morning he'd accidentally run over Sophia at school, curled up dreaming of alternate universes and dreading the day before him. No, he was still that thirteen year old boy getting forced to go to football camp, tied to trees and pinned to auditorium floors.

"It's alright," Carl told him, and took Oliver's hands when he'd started yanking at his beanie. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Oliver was making strange faces, but he was nodding so Carl knew it was progress.

"Should I go first, or should you?" he asked, his voice small and shallow. It made Oliver want to laugh but he squinted and gulped instead.

"Same time."

"Okay."

Despite having a second envelope, Oliver had read and folded them both closed first. He stared at the stone slab under his feet and took a deep breath. Carl closed his letter next, or rather, scrunched it up in his fist. Oliver looked up to him.

"I got in," Carl said.

"Yeah?"

Carl started nodding, and then he started mumbling about colours. Oliver held his cheek and told him to settle and Carl was so overwhelmed that he was just holding onto him for a moment, mumbling on and on about the importance of blue and indigo and violet.

"What about you?" he asked, eventually.

Oliver nodded. "I got in, too."

"Oh my god," Carl gasped, "you're gonna do music? You're gonna do mus–"

"No," Oliver said, tried to smile. "Um. Medicine."

Carl pulled away. He was smiling. It faltered. "What about Ohio?"

Oliver blinked, but shook his head. When the tears fell he swatted them away quickly. "No," he said, sniffed, and tried to keep smiling but his chest was torn right open. "Didn't get into Ohio."

Carl's expression fell so awfully that Oliver felt like it might have been him that was more upset, but that wasn't true, because Oliver was hurting over this. Really _hurting_. It was like a slap in the face and a shove in the chest down the road he wasn't sure he was prepared to walk along. It was a road of concrete and lino and paperwork, but Oliver hadn't brought a pair of business shoes.

"Th-that's okay," Carl seemed to ask and changed his tone when he realised. "You'll still do great in medicine."

Oliver nodded, felt the tare worsen, and his head started shaking by itself, the words, "I can't," catching at the back of his throat, but he said, "Yeah. Yeah I guess," instead.

Carl sighed and took his hand again. Kissed the bruise on it. "I'm sorry. I know how much you wanted to do music."

"No, it's cool. It's cool," Oliver said, "it was stupid anyway. I don't even know what I would've done with a music degree. I don't want to be a rock star or anything like that. I just like making music. Writing songs, playing, hearing it all..." He trailed when he realised this wasn't making him feel any better. Instead he held up their accepting letters. The rejection letter from Ohio fell at his feet. "Look," Oliver grinned tiredly. "We got into college. Carl, we just got accepted into freaking _college_!"

Carl's eyebrows arched, "Oliver..."

"Really," Oliver insisted. "Please? Celebrate this with me? No, no, we'll do that another time. We should go home. Tell our families."

Carl nodded, then stood up and wiped his face. "I'll walk you home."

"No, I'm good," Oliver said, but he felt Carl's eyes on him. Warm and blue and reading him like a comic book. . .

"Oliver," he said, very honestly, "I'll walk you home."

At home, Carl left fairly quickly. When Oliver told his mom he'd been accepted into South Carolina, something happened to Rosa. She... _scattered._ All over the place. Well, no, she stayed in one piece. But when the initial explosion of squeals and tears and hopping started Oliver and Carl felt like they needed to duck out of the way, and then the quiet family of De Lucas suddenly became a very loud family of De Lucas. Carl left before Rosa started chanting. Emilio came downstairs crying his eyes out because he thought somebody was getting _downloaded_ –whatever that meant. Oliver laughed at him and started chanting, too, and although the phrase, _"Oliver is going to be a doctor!"_ made him want to throw up in his mouth, he was happy because his family were happy (once Em had realised that nobody was getting downloaded, that is) and for his family to be happy was kind of something very beautiful for Oliver to see so much of in such little time, and all because of him. So he ignored the _wrong_ feeling the word _'doctor'_ gave his gut and helped his mom make three root beer floats.

* * *

In the next month, things went pretty quickly.

Oliver wasn't _only_ flirting, before, he and Carl really had been busy lately. They ticked off almost everything on their bucket list. Number five; do anything involving corn or pudding, was accomplished the previous Sunday, which was also the day they ticked off number seventeen; have a movie marathon, which they ate the pudding and corn _throughout,_ and also went on Tumblr, so let themselves get away with ticking off number eight, too, because they stayed up all night to do it. Carl had also finished Butterfly Lion, so that was number twenty-seven done since Oliver had already read the Invincible series –which were Carl's favourite books as a kid. Also, a few days before all that Carl had asked Oliver to play him a few songs on his guitar, so ticked off number fourteen; see a concert, because he said it was _just that great_ and he really meant it because it had taken him way too much effort not to cry when Oliver sang a cover of _I'll Be Good_ by Jaymes Young. Number eighteen was a challenge though. Oliver knew that fishing was going to be a lame bucket list idea, but they sort of found a loop hole. Judith had wanted to get hamsters for a while but everybody knew that she would lose interest, so the boys went and bought a goldfish. She named it Buttons, like her toy horse, because apparently _everything_ looked like a Buttons to her. Now all that was left was number eleven and twenty-four. . .

The boys weren't really sure how this was going to work, but they still had two weeks left of summer to figure it out.

Another thing. . .

"I'm not going to medicine college."

Oliver had already sent out the decline online, the day after he'd gotten the letter, actually. But it had taken him until now to finally tell anybody.

"Oh?" Carol said. Because she was who was there when the confession burst from him.

"Uh-huh," he said.

Oliver De Luca and Carol Peletier hardly ever interacted. He'd assumed that since the small fire he'd caused in Home Ec, not to mention pretty much breaking her daughter's heart a few months ago, that she would hate him. But here he was, sat at the dining room table across from her while everybody else was down in the basement playing video games. But Carol was kind. It was easy to trust her. It was even easy to talk to her. For some reason Oliver didn't quite understand but also didn't question, he kind of simply loved her. She sat in quiet with her cup of coffee at the end of her thin pale fingertips, and she'd asked Oliver what was bothering him, and so he'd told her.

"What did your mom say?" she asked.

Oliver just shook his head.

"What did Carl say?"

Again, shake.

"Will you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Carol sighed thoughtfully, and then Sophia walked in.

"Hey," she smiled.

Carol looked Oliver in the eye and gestured towards her daughter expectantly. When Oliver frowned, she said, "Might as well start here, right?"

Oliver swallowed and looked at Sophia. . . "I'm not going to college," he told her.

"Oh?" she said.

"Hey, you got any spare batteries?" Duane asked, clambering through the basement door across the room. "My controller ran – oh, hey, what's goin' on?"

"Nothing," Oliver said casually, "I'm just not going to college."

It was getting easier.

"Oh?"

 _Why are you all saying that?_

"I haven't told anybody else," Oliver replied, "yet."

Carol was smirking. The silver in her eyes sparkled.

"What is it?" Oliver asked her.

"No, no, nothing," she replied, chuckling, "you're just, very peculiar."

Oliver pursed his lips and knew she meant it as a simple observation, and he was going to say something but Carl stepped out of the basement door. "Duane," he said, "man, I found the batteries."

Carl stopped when he noticed everybody.

"What's going on?"

"Uh..."

Duane and Sophia looked like they wanted to leave but Carol put her chin in her hands and clasped her fingers together eagerly, so they stayed and watched, too. Oliver shot them all a glare. . .

"Oliver?" Carl asked wearily.

"I'm... I'm not going to medicine college."

Like everybody else, Carl said, "Oh," too, only he didn't sound nearly as confused. Oliver had anticipated the questions and the disapproval from him, but it wasn't until then, that moment, that he realised Carl knew all along. So Carl nodded and took a seat next to him around the table. Oliver was hugging Sophia's rainbow cushion to his chest and knew he could just go back downstairs with his friends now, but this was bugging him too much.

"I should tell my mom."

They all nodded.

Oliver went home, accompanied down Grove Street by only Carol who gave him a quick pep-talk that didn't actually have any words in it, just a gentle hand on his shoulder and thoughtful exchanges of eye contact and subtle nods and smiles, so he went inside alone, and he told his mother that he wasn't going to college, and then, again, the quiet family of De Lucas suddenly became a very loud family of De Lucas, only this time they were furious. . .

"This is crazy!"

"I don't wanna be a doctor!"

"You've been preparing for this your whole life!"

"Who says?!"

"What?"

"It's what Dad wants. It's what you want. I'm not going to college if it's something I'm going to drop before the first semester's up!" Oliver told her – told everything; the carpet, the couch, the toy Em had left out. Oliver was worried that the others would be able to hear them from Sophia's, so he settled his tone. "I don't want to."

"Think about this."

"I don't need to. I already did," he told her calmly. "I decided the day I sent the application."

"Decided what?!" she ordered. "That you'd throw everything you've worked for out of the window just because you _don't want to._ "

Oliver was quiet.

"What're you going to do instead?"

"I don't know."

"You can't look at flowers and pick cherries and make-up dead people for the rest of your life, Oliver."

"I won't," he said. "I'll take a year out and then try again next year."

"For what? Oliver, you already got the place in South Carolina."

Oliver held his breath.

". . . What are you not telling me?"

"I applied to Ohio, to study music. I didn't get in, but maybe if I try again..." He trailed.

Rosa bit her lips and mulled over his sentence for a few seconds. "What if you don't get in again?"

Oliver wasn't expecting that. He thought she would be angry about the music, and he even prepared for it, and even though he realised she wasn't he still glared at her. "Why are you doing this?" he accused. "Why did you raise me with that bedtime story if you shoot me down when I finally try to do something I want?"

"Because this isn't a bedtime story, Oliver," she told him. "This is real life. Real life where you need to think about your future and I need to think about mine."

Oliver was going to start yelling again, but he realised what she'd said and his shoulders dropped. "What does that mean?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Wait, Mom."

All of a sudden Rosa looked like a child. She looked like Em. Her foot popped to the side and she tilted her head restlessly. Oliver wondered if he would need to count to three or something. But chose against it.

"I've been offered a head mistress place at a middle school," she said. "In Assisi."

". . . Italy?"

"Not until next year."

Assisi was Rosa's home town. She'd missed it since the day she left to marry Oliver's father. When they took family vacations there to see her family she cried harder every time she had to leave. Oliver thought about his own home, back in Lorton. He thought about how much he missed it there and how badly, even now, he wanted to go back, and he thought about how long it took for him to accept King County as his home, too.

"I want you to talk to your father," Rosa said.

Oliver shrugged. "Mom, it's already done. I declined the offer."

She expanded a whole house size but quickly brought herself back down again. "I want you to talk to your father."

Oliver sighed, nodded, pulled at his beanie. "I'll email him."

"Here," she said, and handed over the land-line.

Oliver held the phone in his hand. "He'll think it's you calling."

"Oh well."

"I was going to take Em to the park."

"I'll do it," Rosa said. "He's going to the clinic soon anyway."

"How is he liking Jesus?"

"Good," she said. She knew Oliver was stalling but decided not to press anymore yet; letting him take his own time. "He's better than the last one."

To clarify, Rosa and Oliver hadn't suddenly handed Emilio over to the church or anything like that. Emilio had been going to behaviour therapy. The 'last one', as Rosa had called them, was a child psychologist who stuck for a grand total of thirty-five seconds in the small white room with crayons for Em to draw with if he wanted. The first therapist was nice, and their glasses were thin and their hair was very neat, but they spoke to Em in a baby voice and the little boy screamed, "GET YOUR VOICE BACK!" and stomped on their foot, but at least they were able to keep from cursing at him unlike Goofy at Disney Land.

Jesus was different.

The therapy with him was more Em's style of thinking. The man with the long hair and pale skin and groomed beard and calming voice that always sounded just a little bit amused, who's real name was Paul Rovia, would set the little boy lots of small tasks to do at his own pace. He would talk to him about climbing mountains and flying on clouds and roaring at monsters to make them go away. He would teach him secret handshakes, and get him to draw all the things that made him upset onto pieces of paper and scrunch them up in a ball and throw them down the stairs, giggling at the people sat in the waiting room while the tiny balls of paper complaints rolled across the floor at their feet. Em loved him. In fact, Em loved Paul "Jesus" Rovia so much that Oliver was fairly sure he _would_ be religious when he grew up.

Rosa left the room when Oliver dialled his father's number, and the phone was in his hand and he was listening to it ring into his ear. For once Oliver actually wished his father was too busy between the legs of some bar-tender's sister's girl friend or someth–

The phone picked up.

 _Shit._

" _Ros–"_

Oliver hung up immediately. He spent a few minutes holding the phone like it was burning him before he chucked it over to the arm chair in the corner of the living room. Rosa was coming back into the room with a glass of water and jumped when the phone flew right past her nose. She watched it bounce against the cushion, then looked at her son.

"What was that for?"

"Nobody picked up," Oliver lied.

Rosa sighed and picked the phone back up, held it out. "Try again."

Oliver took it, held it, nodded, then got up and headed up to the bathroom. It was while he was washing his hands in the sink that Rosa followed him up and knocked on the door. When Oliver didn't answer she tried to open it but it was locked.

"Oliver, are you alright?"

"Yep."

". . . Open the door."

"Mom, I'm fine."

"Will you call him again?"

"Yep."

"Promise?"

He pushed his hands against the porcelain and winced. "Promise."

"Alright," she said. "I've got to go take Emi."

Oliver didn't know why she sounded so soft all of a sudden. It scared him. He knew his voice had cracked just then, talking. He held his breath and scrunched his eyes to settle himself.

"Try it on the land-line again and then try it on your own phone," Rosa suggested.

"Okay."

There was a pause. But in the end Rosa gathered up Emilio and left the house. After a while Oliver sat on the floor against the bathtub and made the call. . .

" _Hello, Rosa. How are you?"_

It was odd. His father's voice was soft and deep and thoughtful. It always had been when he spoke to Rosa, even after the divorce. Listening to his father speak to her, especially when they were alone, sometimes made Oliver wonder if he still loved her. If he really did regret what happened, or, what didn't happen, or, what he let drift away from _happening_ at all, but it all became too upsetting to spend too much time thinking about, so Oliver spoke.

"It's me."

There was a pause.

" _Oh. Oliver."_

"Hi, Dad," he said. He could almost see the man straightening his posture. He wasn't saying anything. It was turning Oliver's stomach to pulp. "I gotta talk to you about college."

The man took a breath that crackled softly. Oliver knew he was smoking. A while ago at the cabin, he'd found a stash of Morley cigarettes in the airing cupboard –well, no, actually, Em found them. Oliver barely got there in time before the four year old would've chewed on the tobacco he thought was definitely going to taste like candy.

" _What about it?"_

It took a second.

"I declined the offer."

" _Declined?"_

"Yeah."

" _I... I thought this was important to you."_

". . . No."

Oliver's father didn't get angry, and he didn't yell. He just sounded very disappointed. Oliver felt his heart ache.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I – I know how much you wanted me to go."

" _Yeah,"_ his father said.

Oliver bit his tongue. "Dad?"

A crackle from the drag he took was his reply.

"We haven't talked a lot," Oliver said. "Since the hospital."

* * *

 _He had called his father the day he'd gotten accepted into college, and the man was glad for his son, and for a little while the two had talked like nothing was wrong, making small talk about courses and training and other medical subjects Oliver acted like he cared about, both of them avoiding the bigger talk, like Carl or how Em was doing or Rosa's new boyfriend. So, after long enough when he assumed it was safe, Oliver had started off with the smaller talk. . ._

" _Em's alright," he'd told him._

 _His father hadn't said anything._

" _It doesn't make any difference, not really." Oliver knew that his father, a well known medical doctor, wasn't happy about having a son who couldn't sit still and two others who dropped out of college, or rather, one of them who didn't even_ go _–furthermore, who had a boyfriend, too._

"I heard your mom's got a new boyfriend," _was how the subject had been changed. Only, the man realised this was just as heavy a subject as the last one too late._ "Uh. How's that?"

" _How's what?"_

"You know..."

 _Oliver'd had to guess: "Uh... Philip's alright. Parker, too. They come over every Tuesday. I think we're going to theirs next week. Parker and I make the food together."_

"Who's Parker?"

" _Philip's son," Oliver had said. "He's good at the sauces and cooking the meat, but all I can really cook right is the pasta."_

"I thought Philip has a daughter."

How come you're asking if you know so much about them? _Oliver wanted to ask, but instead said, "Well, Parker's transgender, so..." It wasn't easy talking about this kind of thing with his father, even when it didn't directly involve Oliver, too. Oliver's father sighed, aware of this, too. But Oliver had ignored it and said, "We get along, and we haven't set the house on fire yet."_

"What's Philip like?"

 _Oliver paused then. He was aware of what was happening. A small cruel part of him had wanted to taunt his father, dangle Rosa in front of him on a string with a label saying_ Fuck you, biiiiitch! _but he didn't. He just said, "He's alright."_

"Does he help with Em at all?"

 _Oliver frowned. "Em doesn't need that much help, Dad. Right now it's just kinda up in the air, but only for a little while, while they figure out what they're going to do for him. When that part's over everything will be back to normal. We'll just have to crush a few tablets every day."_ _He_ _had felt like he was consoling his dad over it, and when the man had stayed quiet too long, Oliver kept talking. "I mean, we couldn't call it_ high spirited _forever. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It doesn't have to change anything, you know? He's still Emi."_

 _Mr. De Luca still didn't say anything. So, then came the_ biggest _talk. . ._

" _Like me," Oliver had said. "I'm still just me, even though I'm..." He stopped when another drag crackled into his ear._

 _His father sighed, and then said,_ "We don't need to talk about it, buddy."

* * *

Now, too, the man was avoiding the subject.

"We need to talk about it, Dad."

He sighed. _"We don't–"_

"You don't have to..." Oliver cut him off tightly. "You don't have to say anything. Just, let me talk. Let me and then when I'm finished... we'll go from there. Alright?"

" _. . . Alright."_

Oliver suddenly realised he didn't really have all that much to say, so he started at the basics: "I don't have a name for it," he said. "I don't think I have to, either. For a while it was because I wasn't sure and then I just spent a lot of time trying not to think about it a lot, for as long as I can remember. But now I just don't need to call it anything. And it isn't one or the other it just is. I'll have girlfriends and I'll have boyfriends and maybe I'll have friends that aren't either, but right now I have a boyfriend, and maybe it won't last forever but I know that it _is_ now and I know that that is what is making me happy."

 _Holy shit,_ he thought, w _here the hell did that come from?_

His father was quiet, and there was another small crackle. The silence hovered like a bird, and Oliver thought it would stay there, but then his father spoke. . .

" _I am glad you are happy."_

 _Holy shit,_ he thought again, _where the hell did_ that _come from?_ But this time his eyes widened and his heart skipped over itself, like falling down a staircase. "Oh."

A pause.

"Cool," Oliver added.

" _All yours, Oliver."_

It was an odd thing to say. _All yours. All yours, what? All yours, my blessing? All yours, my acceptance? All yours, do what you want. . . All yours, from your father, because I love you. . ._ Oliver had no idea. But whatever it meant, he had to admit, it sure as hell felt nicer than last time.

"Guess you've got things to do, right?"

"Yeah," his father replied awkwardly. "I uh... I."

"It's okay," Oliver spared him. Because he knew that in all the strange and distant ways his father worked, this was the best result he could have hoped for. As meagre as it was Oliver knew it was taking him a lot of effort, just to acknowledge this, and he knew to appreciate it, to not try to stretch his father's affections anymore than he had stretched them himself. So he listened to his father breathe out the smoke, and he smiled, just a little, and said, "Talk to you soon, Dad."

"Yes," he agreed. "Talk to you soon, Oliver."

* * *

 **From:** _ **OllieDLuca3009  
**_ **To:** _**cjgrimes121314  
**_ **Date: August** **18** **th** **2015  
** **Time: 19:02  
** **Subject: I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I AM FEELING BUT THERE IS A LOT OF IT**

Dad doesn't hate us.

* * *

 **Time: 19:04**

P.S. Mom's not home.

* * *

The doorbell rang before he'd put his phone back into his pocket. . .

"That was fast," Oliver reviewed. "Even from Sophia's."

"Shut up, I was already on my way here."

Oliver smirked.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope."

"What do you want to – oh, what, now?"

"Yep."

"How much time do we have 'til your mom's home?"

"Enough."

"Fine by me."

* * *

Later, when Rosa and Emilio were home and Carl had left, Oliver had made supper (it was basically just pasta and grated cheese sprinkled on top) and they all sat at the table. Oliver had told his mom that his father was okay with him declining college. Well, not okay, but at least he wasn't mad. After the phone call Oliver had spent a lot of time wondering what his father was thinking at all. Had his opinion changed? Had he just kept it all in? Did he miss Oliver? Did he miss Em? Then again, maybe it wasn't only Morley cigarettes he was smoking. . . Either way, after long enough Oliver decided he was going to try very hard not to think about it.

Now though, he thought of what Rosa had said, and picked a quiet time. . .

"You should go."

Rosa guided the ketchup bottle away from Em's grip and looked up to her middle son. "What?"

"It's home," Oliver said. "Assisi."

"I can't go," she laughed.

"Sure you can," Oliver said. "You'd get better pay, or, at least, it'd be more affordable to live over there, and you wouldn't be alone since Em would go with you, and our Aunt and all my cousins would be there, too."

She frowned then. "You, too, Oliver."

"No," Oliver said calmly, "I'd stay. I'd live up in Virginia with Pat. He owes me some so I'd guilt trip him into it. Plus, he's got Scab now."

"Oliver," she said, and raised her hand to his cheek. She felt him gritting his jaw as he chewed. "That's all very sweet for you to say, but I'm not going anywhere."

"I've got Carl," Oliver insisted anyway, "and, I'd have Pat."

"If you're in Virginia all the time you won't see Carl much, and once he goes to college you'll hardly see him at all, and Pat's working all the time and won't be there to keep you..." She wasn't sure how to finish, so she started over. "I've already decided. Just like you have. Oliver, you need me here, for now. I'm helping you."

See, everything before, everything that'd happened over July and August. . . Parts had been left out. It was all just the things Oliver wanted people to see and think about him. But the truth was Oliver wasn't doing good at all.

In the cemetery that day, Oliver was so anxious that he didn't realise he was tapping his fingers against his knees until Carl touched his hands and told him he didn't have to be worried. Oliver didn't know why he was either. There just wasn't a reason. And even after that, after all the crappy cliché stuff with Benny, once Oliver was home, on his own, he had a panic attack that lasted hours.

The next day, when he saw the college letters on the letter box, Oliver spent two hours hurting himself on the floor of his bedroom before Carl burst through his door.

When he told Carol, before, she only knew something was bothering him because she'd found him talking to himself. And earlier, while he was in the bathroom and Rosa was talking to him through the door about the phone call, she had heard Oliver's voice crack because he was holding his hands under the hot water in the sink, scalding himself, and he didn't take them out again until long after she and Emilio were gone and the switch in his brain called justice on himself. Even after that, with Carl in his bedroom, Oliver didn't tell him when it started to hurt. . .

In the last month, behind closed doors, where there were no more distractions – no stories to leave the bad parts out of, the dark cloud still caught up with Oliver on the days when even his lists wouldn't help him. He would try to hide it, suppress. But he would reach his limit somehow or another and it was always Rosa who saw it. She would hear him through the ceiling pacing in his bedroom, she would notice that he'd been skipping meals, she'd count all his coffee cups, and she would sit with her son and hold his hand and stroke his hair until he could slow his breathing and stop crying. The panic attacks were horrible, but at least they didn't happen too often.

So, yes, Rosa _was_ helping him.

She was just giving up an awful lot to do it.

And the worst part?

Oliver wasn't getting any better.

He knew this, but he still didn't want to admit it, so he frowned. "I'm good... Mom, I am."

"For how long?" she asked him finally. Her accent made her sound very soft, suddenly. "I can't risk you getting bad again. I can't risk... _you._ "

Oliver stared at her. He wanted to argue that he was fine, that what she was so afraid to say was something he'd never spent a second contemplating, but he couldn't, so he said nothing.

"I can't do that to you," she went on gently. "I can't go until you can. And, Oliver, you just aren't ready yet."

* * *

 **Notes**

Last chapter next!

Sorry if this story is definitely not what you might have thought it would be, or if you think it's shit or whatever, but idk I'm doing my best with the lack of life experiences and common sense I have, and basically my all around general lack of ability to know how to actually create and tell my own story –ish, since this is still fanfiction xD

Jesus had to be here. If only mentioned once. It had to happen. _Low-key believe that Jesyl is definitely a thing in this story. . . just saying. . . i'll let myself out, good bye..._

Tell me what you thought ^.^ helps a lot x

As always,  
Happy reading ^.^


	23. Part 3: The End

**The Sorrowful Deity** Haha, wow, dark *applauds

 **Natsumo Fujoshit you** xD I thought that bit was funny, too.

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** xD I son't think so. I'm proud too, but then again I wrote this so I think I have licence to feel proud of him. P.S. _Secret:_ I wrote Oliver not getting into college so that I wouldn't feel so depressed if _I_ didn't get into college xD I'm evil. Especially since I _did_ get in.

* * *

Look at me, updating two stories in one day: You should know that the more time I spend on the internet the more likely I am avoiding something in real life xD oops let's not think about that.

P.S. Well done to all of you finishing and getting through your exams! I believe in you and so does Oliver, and I presume Carl, too, but -like- I didn't create him so idk probably

 **Important story tweak:** _I made Richonne a thing in this instead of Morgan and Michonne._

 _It has been absolutely bugging me for months so I've gone back and re-edited, but, you know, sorry if there are still typo sentences with Michonne still dating Morgan by accident that I haven't noticed. So, Michonne lives with Andre in a town outside of King County and is dating Rick, but the kind of dating where they don't make it obvious, (basically like in the show; it just happened and everybody was like "well, duh.") Duane's mom isn't dead, either, and she actually lives happily with Morgan and Duane now xD oops, did it again, psychotic writer habits._ Note to self: Stop killing fictional characters, *cough cough Mikey* seriously. . .

* * *

" **Dream** **" by Imagine Dragons**

* * *

Carl Jeffrey Grimes was starting his first year of Art college in three days.

He'd moved into his on-campus apartment last week, which all freshmen had to do and were allowed to live off campus the last two years of college is they wanted, and as far as Oliver could tell, he loved it there. Almost every day he and Oliver Skype called –well, the calls started off at day-time but went on until the sun was gone and one boy or both had fallen asleep in front of the camera. Carl's hair was _always_ scruffy, and the smudge of ink on his cheek was starting to look more like it was part of his skin. He said that he was drawing more than he ever had before, and he would show them to Oliver over their calls and Oliver loved every one of them. Carl had three room-mates, and they were all nice and would occasionally poke their heads in on calls to say hello, and Oliver would say hello back, and they would say he was cute and Carl would thank them, and then Oliver would sit back and watch Carl talk to them about the freshmen dance and which clubs he was joining and all that stuff Oliver tried not to feel like he was missing out on.

Back in King County, Oliver had been spending a lot more time with Duane (who said he was taking a leap year to save up before he decided what to do with his life) and Parker (who was still in school, or _hell,_ he liked to call it instead). Sophia was starting college in Florida, and was down there already, like Carl. Carol would bring around cookies for Em, and sometimes she would let Oliver help bake them, too.

In regards to everything else, Patrick had already said it was okay for Oliver to stay with him as long as Oliver got himself a job in Virginia and split rent. Rosa meant what she said though. She wasn't going to go to Assisi for a while. In truth, she was fairly sure she wouldn't go at all. She had Em to think about and Oliver and Philip and Parker, and she said that was okay. Even so, Oliver wanted to move out, and he hadn't made any final plans but he figured Patrick was as good a place as any to start. Plus, he would be in the same state as Lorton, and double plus, he would be a whole _two_ states closer to Carl and Penelope, which definitely tipped his favour.

Everything was working out the way it was supposed to – like Mika always said.

Only it wasn't.

The pressure of keeping himself in one piece was weighing down on Oliver so much that he was falling apart. The dark cloud had turned into a typhoon... a hurricane. But he had to suffer in silence. He had to smile and laugh in company, look after Emi and kiss his mother's cheek and reply to Carl's emails and Skype calls. He had to forget his heaviness and push it to the back of his mind. But when he was alone, in his own quiet, in his own bedroom, again. . .

Oliver broke.

His mom was checking his arms and chest now, but not other places.

Carl was right: Oliver _was_ good at finding loop holes.

Dale had been letting Oliver leave the florist early, too. The first time was when the boy had fallen out of a cherry tree. He was thinking about his future and it scared him enough that it brought on an anxiety attack, and the tree branch he was holding onto suddenly shrank and turned to snakes, so he fell seven feet and sprained his ankle, and the times following were because Oliver had started having panic attacks, and when the old man asked Beth to drive the hyperventilating boy home Oliver had begged hysterically for her not to tell his mom about it, and the concerned woman patted her colleague's back while Oliver heaved into his kneecaps for almost ten minutes before he could bring himself to get out of the truck. But Beth kept her word and didn't tell.

It was Thursday now.

August twenty-ninth.

Oliver had bailed on Taco Thursday for the first time since it became a thing.

He didn't feel like going alone.

Rosa was staying at Philip's house for the night, back in the morning, so Oliver and Emilio had the house to themselves. Carl was going to Skype later, but Oliver sent an email saying he wasn't feeling up to it.

Carl decided to text: _'Are you_ _alright_ _?_ _'_

 _'I'm fine.'_

 _'You always say that_ _._ _'_

 _'What if I mean it?'_

 _'Do you?'_

 _'I mean it one day.'_

 _'I love you Oliver De Luca.'_

Now he was in the bathroom, stood before the mirror thinking about his childhood. He'd come to understand that his past was less frightening than his future, and his present was so cloudy he couldn't see past the reflection in front of him. He thought about Penelope; staying up late with his back to hers and his nose buried into a comic, feeling the jolts of her body while she typed away into her laptop. He thought about how it felt to touch the condensation on his bedroom window every Winter morning, and the glow-in-the-dark star stickers he'd put up on his old ceiling, and all the days he spent sat on the porch reading without worrying about college or mom's dating or distant fathers or how much he hated himself and couldn't understand why somebody had fallen in love with him, let alone that people even cared about him.

Oliver thought about when he'd lost that giddy obliviousness.

The very moment.

It was telling Penelope he was moving. It was when he caught his father screwing that woman in the condo. It was getting his head slammed inside a locker, and getting told not to be weak. Not to be quiet or afraid. It was getting told he wasn't enough and believing it. But it also wasn't, too. In truth, it wasn't any one particular _moment_ or _event_ at all. It was a collection of events and moments and thoughts that burned out his flame one thin tower of smoke after another, and now, he was here, aching, with the echo of the water filling the bathtub behind him. A pot of Em's orange pills were gripped in one hand and the edge if the sink was clenched in his other.

Oliver Fabiano De Luca.

The quiet boy who's mind was messed up. Only, he messed other people up, too. The closer people got and the more they cared about him and the more he let them do that, the more messed up it would all become. His mother could be giving up her dream job to look after him. His little brother almost died because Oliver had let his guard down. He was neglecting Carl for trying to help and he wasn't telling him he loved him back. It was sick. _He_ was sick. His own father couldn't even look at him properly. He'd led Sophia on. He'd taken Penelope's innocence before they were ready. Every day he was messing them all up more and more.

For a long time now he'd known what he needed to do, but like Rosa said. . .

He wasn't ready to go yet.

But he was now.

He had to be.

 _This is it,_ he told himself. _This is when you go._

 _ **Or...**_

His hands were shaking. The pills rattled like serpents. He hadn't touched the bathtub but he was already drowning. He had been for years.

He wanted it to stop.

There was this woman at the grocery store today. Oliver saw her buying oatmeal and _Crush_ soda, and once he'd bought his mom's avocados he followed the woman outside and saw her sit on the bench a block away in front of a big ugly construction site. It was building a new cul-de-sack. There was a crane and digger, and dirt was trampled and dug up all over the place. The woman was reading _War and Peace,_ and Oliver decided to sit beside her. For a while, there was no talk, just the rumbles and screeches and beeps of the building site ahead of them, until she put down her book and noticed him. He was dressed in his black uniform and dark blue waist apron, still.

"Hi," she said, and leaned forward to read his name tag, "Oliver."

He smiled tightly.

She smiled back.

Her smile was a strange kind of awkward-confident smile.

Oliver trusted her smile.

"Uh. Everything okay?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head, and, very carefully, said, "I think I'm going to kill myself."

Her eyes fixed on him closely and he saw her hand grip her _Crush_ soda can a little more tightly.

Oliver knew he was making her uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," he told her softly. "I'm telling you because I can't tell my mom or my brothers or my boyfriend. They'll try to stop me. I just, needed to tell somebody."

She squinted, and her grip relaxed around the can. Her thumb stroked the unopened tab gently. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were blue and gazing through silver-framed glasses.

"What makes you think I won't try to stop you, too?" she asked quietly, and Oliver shrugged at the construction site. He probably should have suddenly felt afraid or embarrassed, but he didn't feel anything at all.

"I – I think there is a part of me wondering what would happen if you did," he admitted vacantly. He looked over at her and smiled. "But, with all do respect, ma'am, you don't know me. I could leave now and you'd never see me again."

"You could," she agreed. "But you haven't."

Oliver got up.

"Sorry for wasting your time," he said. "I should go now. But, thanks for listening." He leaned forward and read the student key-card dangling from her neck. Ironically, she was a psychology student. "Denise Cloyde."

"Well," she said quickly, "can I tell you one thing?"

Oliver scratched his temple hesitantly, but nodded.

"Whatever it is, making you want this, it doesn't have to have a permanent fix. Whatever shit you're dealing with, you gotta face it. My ex told me she loved me and I was too afraid to say it back. When I was finally going to, it was too late."

Oliver watched her bring her hand up to her eye and rub it.

"Is that who the soda's for?"

She looked at him and frowned. "What?"

He pointed. "Your ex."

"How do you know it's not for me?" she questioned.

"You haven't drank it yet," he said. "You're sort of... tickling it."

She stopped when she realised and chuckled miserably, then said, "I wasn't tickling it."

Oliver pursed his lips.

Denise hesitated, stuttered, then sighed. "I don't even know why I bought it. I hate pop."

 _Pop,_ Oliver thought. _She's probably from Ohio or something._

"Tara loved this stuff. I've got a whole... shelf full." She trailed.

 _Will you fix it with her?_ Oliver wanted to ask, because Oliver actually wished she would, but the quiet boy did what he did best and kept his mouth shut.

"You gotta face your shit, Oliver," Denise said after a few moments. "You're a good person, and if you don't you're going to miss your chance to do something great."

Now, inside the bathroom on Grove Street, King County, Georgia. . .

Oliver took a pill and dipped his mouth under the faucet to swallow it.

Then he took another.

And another.

And another.

Until the pot was empty.

He carried it over to the tub and climbed in, and then switched it off with his toes, and for a long while he watched the empty pot float in front of his nose and past his face, until he felt himself sink under the water. He watched air bubbles rise without him, saw the pill pot's silhouette wobble and move away, and he, too, waited for himself to drift away, too. He could hear Em listening to music in his room, watching something on YouTube with their mom's iPad, probably. The sound was soft and comforting and muffled through the water. Maybe he heard ringing, too. Maybe in his last moments of consciousness Carl had burst out of his cell phone and swept Oliver from the water and his sadness. . .

Only that didn't happen.

Only, _n_ _one_ of it had happened. . .

Oliver was still staring at his reflection in the mirror,  
the pill pot –full– shaking in his palm.

. . . and nobody was coming to save him.

Because no matter how much Carl helped, no matter how comforting the music sounded, or how many times he curled up in his mother's arms and cried a little more of the hurt away each time, this was not his cure. It could help. Dull it.

But not stop it.

So, Oliver understood that it was up to himself.

He had to chose.

He could end his life.

 _ **Or. . .**_

He could become his own superhero.

A sob pushed its way out of him in the same moment Oliver threw the pill pot across the bathroom. He yanked the plug out of the bathtub and collapsed to the tiles and cried into his kneecaps. Cried and cried and cried. But he didn't hurt himself. He held his ears and clamped his eyes and waited not to hurt anymore, and after a long time, when the hurt still hadn't gone away yet, he pulled his palms away from his ears and opened his eyes.

Emilio was stood in the door.

He was watching him carefully, wearing Oliver's old spider-man pyjamas that were a lot too big and needed sewn-in clips to stay on his body. He crouched down and picked up the pot of his pills and asked Oliver if it was time for him to take some, and Oliver said no, so Em carefully climbed up onto the toilet and reached across the sink and put his pills back in the medicine cupboard. When he came down, he sat on Oliver's lap and used his little fingers to wipe the tears away from his big brother's cheeks. Oliver couldn't stop crying, so Em took his jaw in his small little palms, gently, and asked him. . .

"Why are you unhappy?"

"I hate the way I am."

Em thought very carefully about how to respond to his brother. Oliver thought he might suggest to go play Lego, or eat pudding, but the little boy just wrapped his arms around Oliver's chest and squeezed very firmly. Oliver cried even harder, but he was hugging Emilio back.

"Oliver," the little boy said into his shirt. His small voice was muffled and sweet and tired. "I wish you were happy."

Emilio and Oliver stayed up and talked for a long time. They didn't really talk about anything in particular, most of their conversation involved zebra and flowers and Judith –Emilio liked to talk about Judith– and for a lot more of their conversation, they didn't talk at all. When Emilio started to fall asleep, Oliver carried him out of the bathroom. Emilio mumbled that he wanted to stay in Oliver's room tonight, so, once Oliver took his inhalers and got dressed, he let Emilio use his arm as a pillow.

By the morning, Oliver found Emilio curled up around his feet.

Like a dog.

Oliver knelt over him and gently poked his nose.

Emilio scrunched it, then swatted it with his fingers and said, " _Muhhh._ "

Carefully, Oliver lifted him over his shoulder and carried him downstairs. Emilio didn't even wake up. It was nine AM in the morning, so once Oliver put his brother on the kitchen chair and let him lie his cheek on the table, he went about making breakfast for them, and when Emilio could smell it he sat up and said, "Can I have some?" And Oliver called him, "My man," as he served up eggs and bacon and avocado (because apparently Em liked avocado now). When Rosa returned from Philip's, Oliver served up for her, too, and ate with his family, and things weren't perfect but they weren't awful either, and Oliver figured that that had to be alright for now.

* * *

"Have you got it?"

" _Yeah,"_ Carl replied, and showed the tattered piece of paper to the web-cam on his laptop. He looked at the camera when he talked, whereas sometimes Oliver had a habit of being self-conscious enough that he would talk to the view finder. Carl would call him out on it though. _"What did you want me to tick off?"_

"Number eleven."

Carl twisted it around to read. There was a lag, and in one frame he was smiling but in the next he suddenly wasn't anymore.

Oliver tried to ignore it.

" _Survive something that should have killed you,"_ Carl said, and hesitated. _"_ _E_ _rm, why?"_

Oliver shrugged.

Carl's eyebrows twitched together for a second, and he said, _"_ _Are you alright_ _?"_

"I think so," Oliver answered.

Carl was worried, but he nodded, _"_ _I trust you._ _"_

Oliver smiled and said, "Me, too," and there was only one more thing to tick off of their bucket list.

" _Twenty-four,"_ Carl read out. _"Keep A PROMISE."_

And that's exactly what they did.

* * *

 **Notes**

The End –

um, epilogue soon though, probably, 'cause of my separation anxiety from this story and fear of things ending and all that.

Okay, quick chapter notes before I get to grovelling. . .

1.) _this is more for last chapter but –_ I tried a root bear float for the first time last Summer and it might have changed my life.

2.) I really hated Oliver (imagining) using Em's pills. I'd originally wrote the potential method as a blade but noppeeeee caaan't sorry, so I caved and did that thing where annoying writers use another character's ailment to progress the protagonist's story because I'm a walking shit storm. Sorry!

Alright, onto the grovelling:

Look, I have no idea what you will think of the ending but I'm... _moderately..._ happy with it. Yes, I could do more with Oliver's dad and other characters like Duane or Penelope or Sophia or Parker, and I was going to, but I thought about the real message of the story and I decided it was the right time to end it.

So...

 **This was not a story about how a boy came out of the closet, or about how he got a boyfriend, or about how he didn't get into college. This is a story about a boy who needed a hero, and in the end found one in himself.**

I also thought about the main theme in this, and I kind of realised that it was _missing home_. Or, maybe missing a place to _feel at home,_ and -like- maybe not just a house but like feeling home inside his own head. Like how the whole time he low-key (and kind of high-key) missed Lorton and Penelope and Patrick and also just generally hated himself, and never felt comfortable exactly were he was or with who he was, just like he feels in the main story too, and how he never actually got to fix a lot of that (like how in the main story Patrick died and how he never got to put Penelope down and how he never went home ((yet – for that one)).). And how in the end he never did see home or Penelope or Patrick –much, at least– only heard them through phones or emails (like how he only talks to them in his head in the main story).

Idk, it makes sense in my head.

Look, I'm going to uni soon to learn how to tell an actual story well, so getting a shit one (or seven) out of my system first as practice is helping me rn so *blows raspberries

Hope you liked it, at least a little, some of the time :)

Despite all this, though an epilogue really is coming soon...  
week, tops?  
So stay tuned?

As always,  
Happy reading ^.^

and thanks for sticking around xoxo


	24. EPILOGUE

**The Sorrowful Deity** I'm not even sure I understood your review but it still made me smile.

 **BloodGutsandChocolatePudding** Thank you infinitely. Your support has meant the world to me. ILY.

 **DarthGranola** Thank you always.

 **JRH18** Thank you xoxo

 **Blood on my Machete** It is okay I am just glad you poke your head in every once in a while! Thank you! So much! Your reviews and support and friendship are phenomenal. You got that nail right on the head. Everything. Like Em's childish innocent and augh even the stuff I didn't notice like the pills being a screwed up healing metaphor and augh just thank you.

 **IWalkOnMyOwn** Thank you that is so lovely for you to say gosh you're so lovely.

* * *

 _My heart goes out to the lost innocent souls in Orlando._

 _Love wins,  
always._

* * *

" **MELTED" by Akdong**

* * *

Oliver was rushing.

"Shit shit shit," he hissed when hot coffee spilled on his shirt sleeve.

He sped to the office and knocked on the glass doors.

"Come in, Luca."

 _It's DE Luca!_ he thought. _DE! DE DE DE DE DE!_

Oliver went in quietly and set the coffee on the desk beside a neat pile of port-folios. On the wall behind Mr. Jenson –who was the _second in command_ – was a framed album poster where sparks and embers were sizzling from the star's fingertips.

"Ah!" Mr. Jenson cried. "About time."

"Excuse the wait, sir," Oliver said politely, "there was a line at Starbu–"

Mr. Jenson was waving him away. "Great, great, _great_!" he said. "Enjoy your day, kid. Next time, make them put the milk in a separate cup, would you? It gives me perspective, adding it myself."

Oliver bit his mouth and nodded his head silently.

"Oh," Mr. Jenson said, and pointed. "You've got a stain on your left sleeve."

"Yes," Oliver answered honestly, "I do."

When he left the room, Oliver found the will to laugh at himself as he travelled the elevator down to the second floor, rubbing his sleeve on his leg as he did, and he thought about how crazy-ridiculous it was that of all the places in the world and all the possible people who could be alive today and every other circumstance they could all have been in at that very moment, of all the universe, Oliver had just served coffee to a man who wore socks that matched his tie and were always a shade darker than pastel, and that _that_ was the way the world worked around him right now.

Oliver was an Intern.

 _:EXPOSURE:_ was the company name.

The logo was big and white and everywhere inside the building, and outside, the word shone bright and bold and silver over the glass revolving door. The halls were solid coordinated colours and the floor was shiny and clean. Doors opened with key-cards.

When his nine to five shift was over at _Exposure,_ Oliver walked the seven blocks across the city to his paid job, which was in retail at a _twenty-four-six store_. When _that_ was over, it was almost five in the morning, and Oliver trudged to the train station with his rucksack full of smart _Intern_ clothes and some left over day-over-expiration-date ready made meals, and he took the night (or _very early morning_ ) subway train to his apartment on the west side of the city. The streets were dark and grungy, and the street-lights shone orange overhead and made his shadow look like it was following him. The asphalt was wet and it was starting to rain again, and he counted the seconds until he could climb the staircase to his apartment.

Scab greeted Oliver at the door, meowing impatiently. Scab's meow sounded more like a motorbike. Oliver let it inside, and as the straggly feline slithered up onto the table-stand, Oliver petted it at the right place on its head and watched the cat mellow at his touch, like dousing a firecracker, and Oliver, himself, felt the stresses of the day start to fizzle away to the back of his mind.

In two years, a month over twenty-one years old now, Oliver had become a rather handsome young man. He was tall and had lost the most of his _scrawn_ and replaced it with something between muscle and whatever happens to a human body when you still do kind of live off of mostly Taco Bell and Mountain Dew, and he had shorter hair, styling it in a floppy quiff above his head –although sometimes it still fell in the direction only _it_ wanted to be in. Working at the internship, he wore clean leather wing-tip shoes, cuffed jeans, a button up white shirt and a pale grey blazer (sometimes a colourful bow-tie if he felt like it that day), and to his paid job –less smart– he wore all of that only he switched the wing-tip shoes for tattered black sneakers, and a company polo shirt instead of the button up, blazer and bow-tie –and if he knew he could get away with it, at both jobs, he would sometimes wear his beanie.

He set his soggy belongings down on the kitchen table and figured he'd unpack it all tomorrow morning instead, since he had the next week off of work, which he'd requested two months in advance so _he would absolutely be able to go and see his family._ Now though, he took only his inhaler and the damp clothes on his back with him through to his bedroom. Scab wondered along under his feet – probably wanting food, but Oliver had given up trying to feed it cat food because Scab kept throwing up on the carpet by the bedroom door for bear feet to tread on every day, so now, Scab got its own food, and only came back home to have clean water and a place to sleep and be petted _(at the petter's own risk)_.

On their way through the small apartment, Oliver saw some new paintings drying. They were propped up on the floor along the wall –the new ones always were. The artist had been busy this evening, it looked.

These weren't the kind made for college though.

These were the kind an artist kept for them-self.

They were painted with all the colours in spectrum, and even some outside of it. Often, these were the best kind of paintings. He would draw all the places and experiences and adventures and events, all catalogued into sketch pad after sketch pad, canvas after canvas. Tonight, the paintings were of Oliver. Close up parts of him. His neck and shoulders and hands and ribcage. In every different way. They were created with such a talent that nobody would even be able to tell it was Oliver unless they looked close to see the matching birthmarks and moles and scars.

Oliver used his foot to gently hold Scab back while he shut his bedroom door, and then quietly set his inhaler down on the bedside table.

He smiled at the lump in his bed.

It snored softly.

Oliver closed the neglected laptop beside the snoring lump and put it on the floor instead, then shifted across the room to get dressed. There was a small tired, "Hey, you," behind him when the lump noticed him a few minutes later.

Oliver smiled and pulled his shirt off over his head. "Go back to sleep, Carl."

"How was work?"

"Jenson's a pretentious asshole," Oliver replied giddily, kicking off his jeans and pulling on a clean pair of socks and underwear, and then he turned and climbed under the sheets at Carl's feet, shuffling up and across him while the drowsy young man chuckled and groaned tiredly.

"No change there then," he replied.

Oliver still hadn't resurfaced, and instead had taken to burrowing his nose against Carl's belly button and tucking his hands between his back and the mattress. He rubbed his toes at the bottom of the bed to warm them up again. This was Oliver's equivalent of how his little brother would close his eyes and take thirty slow breaths to settle everything in his head, only, to Em that was an ADHD coping method, and to Oliver, burying his nose into Carl's stomach was just a general life coping method.

Carl tracked his hands under the bedsheets and gently ran his fingernails through Oliver's scalp and hair –this was also a good coping method. Oliver's hair was still a little damp from the weather, so Carl pinched small parts of the sheets together and rubbed either side of his head to dry it for him.

Carl, in the last few years, had grown also. He was tall (he and Oliver both still weren't sure who was tallest) and as well as just generally _never_ cutting his hair, ever, as now it was down to his shoulders, he'd also grown a goatee, in fact, the only hair on his body he cut was his facial hair, and that was only ever a trim to keep himself looking _somewhat_ groomed –it was something Oliver teased him for, because Carl was beginning to look like something between a hippie and what his father would look like in some crazy apocalyptic TV show or something, but Oliver liked it, secretly.

"You okay?" Carl asked, and Oliver nodded into skin and kissed the pale hipbone in front of him.

"Guess what, man?" he mumbled.

Carl made a strange low noise in reply.

"Boss is giving me the job," Oliver answered.

Carl was yawning, but when he heard that he almost startled. "No way."

Oliver grinned.

Carl felt it.

Boss was the woman who ran and owned _Exposure._ Nobody knew her real name. Everybody just called her Boss. She wore her curly ginger hair in a bun and had a face as straight and sharp as a knife. She wore only white and black, with the occasional platinum or diamond jewellery, and when she spoke, you listened to every syllable. Boss, unlike Mr. Jenson, actually paid attention to her staff, and she'd called Oliver into the office a few weeks ago and said he might be a candidate for moving up from internship, if he wished.

And, _God,_ he wished.

"Really?" Carl asked, suddenly expanding like a hot air balloon.

"Start when I'm back," Oliver said.

"That's so great – Oliver, come up, this is important." When he didn't, Carl flipped the sheet over Oliver's head anyway to look at him and Oliver groaned in protest. His quiff was sticking outward in every direction. "Oliver, this is so awesome!"

Oliver hid under the bed sheet again.

"I'm proud of you," Carl told him, and he smiled when he felt Oliver grin.

"Thanks, man."

When Oliver applied online eleven months ago last winter –at some forwarded link Carl had figured he might be interested in– Oliver never really expected a reply. But within the next few weeks he was quitting his mail job and moving from Patrick's place in Virginia up to New York to share Carl's apartment to start the new internship, along with the paid retail job.

He thought that it would be like it was in the movies: surrounded by music, and the people would all be crazy-creative and in love with their work. But it didn't turn out like that at all. He didn't see inside a studio for months (and that was only to clean up after a rather _'methodistic'_ artist who'd gotten hold of a glitter prop) and the only music that could ever be heard was the droney elevator noise he endured every day getting to the second floor, and the staff were serious and professional and would just ask him for more coffee and sugar free vanilla lattes.

Oliver hated it, at first, but once he gave it a chance he began to understand it –enjoy it, even: watching how much more intricate and detailed everything about making music really was. The dynamic training, all the concepts and strategies and copy-right laws, and all the ways _Exposure_ was as successful as it was.

He found it fascinating.

Even when he had to supply coffee that lacked _'_ _perspectiv_ _e'_.

"I knew you would get it," Carl said, and Oliver lifted his head and saw him through the small gap. Carl's smile was goofy and his eyes were heavy and a little blood-shot.

Oliver laughed. "You look like the un-dead."

"Had to pull an all-nighter," Carl said, rubbing his eyes, and when he saw that Oliver had moved his laptop for him, Carl snickered and shrugged and said, "well, almost."

"You crashed."

"Yeah."

"And decided to spend most of the night painting anyway, rather than writing the report you're meant to be finishing by next week."

Carl frowned.

He was on his last year at college now.

Poor soul still had to _write_ about art though.

"Busted," Oliver mumbled smugly, and was back under the sheets again, only this time he was doing a little more than just burying noses into belly buttons. Carl may or may not have shuddered, and Oliver's voice muffled when he spoke to him: "How much of the report do you have left?"

"Uh, only – only a little."

Oliver was smiling again, and his smile gave Carl butterflies.

It still did that.

" _Ti amo,_ Grimes."

Carl's hands were back in Oliver's hair, only he was under the sheets, too, now, and he said, "I love you, too," and felt the familiarity of Oliver's hands and lips and body against him, as easy as it was for him to tune a ukulele, and their thoughts tangled and intertwined like wild flowers, and in that small part of their _very early_ morning, they forgot their own names together.

* * *

They were in the car and packed by noon.

It would be a two day road-trip to Georgia, and there was a stop on the way.

"Alright," Penelope said, and held up the road map from the passenger seat. "Oliver. Mikey. Carl. We've made this trip before. We know what we're doing."

The three young men did not believe her and in the kindest way possible. Penelope had never been very good at finding what she was looking for. She knew this, of course, so she handed the map to Carl, who was sat behind her next to Bean –her dog, and Mikey –who was her boyfriend now, (kind of) (it was never quite clear) (to anybody but them) (the word _platonic_ was usually said in front of the word boyfriend) (and whenever it was said Mikey would either roll his eyes or hug her depending on his mood).

Their first stop was South Carolina. More specifically, the small neighbourhood by the lake where Oliver's father lived; which was where they would sleep for the night, and which was also where they were dropping Mikey, Penelope and Bean off to stay at Enid's, and then the boys would leave for King County the next morning.

Enid had been emailing them all week. Nell mostly. Excited out of her mind. Penelope and Enid were kind of best friends. So much so that Ron and Mikey got jealous.

The drive to South Carolina took most of the day.

They all took turns driving, rotating in their seats at the rest stop pull-in's when whichever driver got tired, but they finally arrived to South Carolina a little while before dark.

While Penelope, Bean and Mikey went and stayed with Enid, Oliver and Carl ate with Mr. De Luca (who had ordered Chinese), and Oliver told him about the job upgrade (because calling it a promotion felt odd) and his father was really proud of him. He could still be tense and awkward a lot, and the first time Oliver was allowed to bring Carl over to the lake they were almost kicked out on the second day because his father caught them holding hands in the hammock, but as the time went on, Oliver kept trying –because he knew that his father was trying, too, until it got to the place in their lives where Oliver would catch his father laughing under his breath at Carl's puns, and Oliver would even catch the warmer looks his father would give him –his own son– when he didn't think he noticed.

But Oliver always noticed.

Enid moved out last year, but she hadn't gone far from home –within walking distance, actually, so when it got dark, she and her friends went down to the lake and acted like the kids they were when most of them met each other, only this time there was a little more alcohol and smoking involved, and at one point, Ron, the oldest of them all at twenty-three years, decided it was the best idea in the world to take off all his clothes and jump from someone's private dock into the lake, and when the home-owner roared at them from their porch, waving a cellphone and threatening to call the police, the six young adults (and one dog) grabbed their things and made a run for it.

* * *

The next morning, Nell woke up before anybody else.

It was only just sunrise, and the sky was pale blue and yellow. The clouds looked like UFOs.

Mikey's arms were wrapped around her chest and when she became vaguely aware of what was digging into her hip, she shuffled away carefully. When she sat up and looked around, she realised that last night they'd all found themselves in a cornfield. She didn't know it specifically, but it was the same cornfield Enid and Oliver used to walk by to buy groceries, the one with the crumbling barn in the middle. Memories of running through the tall corn stalks playing Marco-polo with everybody all night flittered into her memory and she rubbed the cloud from her eyes and tried to remember what time felt like. She attempted to neaten her hair. It was long and tangled. She was thinking about cutting it all, but hadn't mustered the courage yet.

Bean wondered through the stalks and sat in front of her, and she rubbed his neck and went to find Enid. Somewhere close by, amongst the corn and foliage, she could hear Carl and Oliver making love, and she shook her head affectionately and moved the opposite way, keeping her bearings by the caved in barn roof to her right. Finally, Nell found Enid curled up with Ron a few yards away from the barn. Penelope bent over her and tapped the heel of her palm, and Enid woke.

"Come on, Tink," Nell said, "we'll leave the lost boys here until Peter's finished with his flying lesson."

Enid knew what that meant because she could speak fluent Nell, and she chuckled, because the translation was far more explicit. So she stood up and grabbed a broken corn leaf, and into it, scratched the words, _'We'_ _ll be_ _in Neverland.'_ and put it in Ron's pocket before they left.

The boys either woke up or re-grouped a little while later. Carl and Oliver found Mikey and Mikey found Ron. Ron was still unconscious. Mikey, Carl and Oliver hadn't had anything more than a few beers last night, so they woke Ron up with a few gentle pats on the cheek and guided him back to Enid's house, putting up with him insisting he could feel his own wings growing. Ron was kind of a mess a lot of the time, but in a sort of problematically likeable way so the guys didn't mind.

After breakfast and a shower, Oliver spent some time with his dad before saying goodbye to him and his friends, and then he and Carl got into Oliver's car again and left for home.

* * *

Seven and a half hours later, Emilio glanced out of his window and saw a small red car pulling into the driveway, and he flew so fast out of the house that Rosa thought an animal had gotten inside.

"OLIVER!" the seven year old screamed.

He was out of the car and running across the driveway, and when Emilio jumped, Oliver caught him and swung him around so fast that the little boy's laughter and legs span outward, too. Emi was telling him about school and this movie he saw the other day and all the cool things he was doing, talking so fast that Oliver could hardly get a word in.

"Me and Mom saw Jesus and his boyfriend in town the last week!"

"Oh, neat–"

"Yeah, he's this cool-looking redneck guy, with tattoos and a _beard_ and a really low voice like a _bear_!"

"Awes–"

"Mom's making us her special Italian!"

"Gre–"

"She's gonna be so excited to see you!"

"You seen Judy lately?" Carl got in curiously.

"Yeah," Emi said. He was hopping on one foot like he did so brilliantly. "She won the third grade race the other day and got to be in the newspaper!"

Carl grinned, and then he was staggering back when Rosa De Luca crashed into his torso. Oliver's, too, and the two young men where hugging her back just as tightly. When Philip wondered out of the house, Oliver shook his hand and then grunted when the man pulled him in for a firm hug and patted his back. When they pulled away, Oliver saw Parker leaning out of the front door. He walked over and bumped Oliver's fist.

"Guess what?"

Oliver's right eyebrows jumped up expectantly.

"I'm going on T in six months."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's awesome!"

Parker grinned haggardly and excitedly at the same time, then the grin dropped. "Wait, you wear glasses?"

Oliver touched them, running his thumb over the dark green frame. "Yeah."

"Since when do you need glasses?"

Oliver laughed. "Since I was sixteen."

Parker looked like he'd just seen an elephant stampede across the street.

"I just always wear contacts."

"Oh."

"Come on, man," Oliver grabbed his shoulder and they went inside.

* * *

It was the evening.

Getting late, really.

Oliver had only stayed at home with his mom for a few hours before he, Emi and Carl drove over to the Grimes' house. Rick helped unpack and spent most of the evening talking to Michonne on the phone and watching TV with Carl downstairs. At one point, on Oliver's way back from the bathroom, he could hear Judith and Emilio talking in her bedroom. He pressed his ear to the door and heard Emilio telling her his bedtime story from memory. He must have done it before, because on the last sentence, Judith finished with him. . .

" _But for now, I'll just be me._ "

It was funny, when Carl came out to Rick the second semester back home on his Junior year at college, he'd written him a letter (at Penelope's suggestion and help), and Rick read it quietly and then looked up to Carl and smiled. "I know, son," he'd said, and Carl had said back, "Oh."

Whinny still didn't quite understand the concept of two boys dating. She kept referring to Carl and Oliver as _best pals_. Even when they held hands in front of her she would tut and say, "Best pals I've ever seen!" Carl once joked that she'd still be saying it while they walked down the isle together, but he didn't say that again because Oliver almost choked on his own food.

Oliver smiled and knocked on the door. "Come on, guys," he said quietly when he opened it. "It's time to go to sleep."

Judith rubbed her eyes and yawned adorably, and Emi climbed to the other end of the bed to top and tail with her. Judith was far taller than Em now, and he'd gotten into the habit of walking on tiptoes when he was around her. She never noticed until he would trip over himself, and then she would crouch next to him while he rubbed his knee, and she would stroke his hair and say, "Don't worry, you'll grow."

Oliver bent over her and ran his thumb down her nose. "Night, Judy."

"G'night." She spoke like Lori; everything from her tone and pace to her accent and mannerisms, although she still called him Molimer sometimes.

Oliver knelt beside Emilio next and kissed his forehead. "Night, Em."

Emi touched his jaw softly and looked up at him with big brown eyes. "Have you decided what you'll be when you grow up?" he asked him.

Oliver shook his head and smiled. "No idea."

"But you _are_ a grown up."

Oliver's smile turned into a snarl and he poked the little boy in the stomach.

Em grumbled in-distinctively.

"Night, man," Oliver whispered. Emi's hair was long, and a little straighter and darker now, like Rosa's. Due to Carl's influence, Emilio was inspired to grow it out. He would fight anybody who came at him with a pair of scissors, and in the last few years his hair had grown past his ears and eyebrows. Sometimes Em would sit with his head hung forward, swaying side to side to let it tickle his cheeks.

"Night," Em whispered.

Once Oliver was downstairs, he said goodnight to Rick and Whinny, and then, without a word, he held his hand out to Carl. Carl was so tired that he took too long to notice the hand in front of him between his face and the TV screen, so it was only when Oliver gently nudged his nose with his thumb that he did.

When they were upstairs huddled under the bed sheets together in the same room that Carl and Oliver both missed and didn't miss, too, they played the same game they'd played together since they were teenagers, whispering the questions between each other in their small, quiet, place together. . .

 _1\. Do you prefer baths or showers?_

Carl: "Showers."  
Oliver: "Baths."

 _2\. Who's a mentor to you?_

Carl: "My dad, I guess."  
Oliver: "Dale, always."

 _3\. Where do you feel the safest?_

Carl: "With you."  
Oliver: "You're a sap."

 _4\. What is your favourite season?_

Carl: "Fall. It reminds me of looking at you."  
Oliver: "I swear to God, man."

 _5\. Describe yourself in one word._

Carl: ". . . Me."  
Oliver: "Yeah. . . me, too."

* * *

 **Notes**

What's that? Epilogues are supposed to be many many years in the future when the protagonists are middle aged and have kids and secure jobs and happy lives and not only two and a half years later when they're still in college and or crappy full time soul-sucking jobs? Oh. Well it's probably got something to do with the fact that thinking that far ahead in the future is a very terrifying thing for me and, again, I caved and wrote something I could better relate to because I'm too afraid of the world to even write about fictional versions of it :) whoop!

 _Maybe in ten years I'll write a second epilogue xD  
...for my own sake I hope I don't mean that o.O_

Chapter notes:

1\. I _think_ Boss was Paula but I'm not even sure *shrugs* 2. I gotta say that I platonically ship Mikey and Nell to the moon and back xD 3. The stain on his sleeve was supposed to be a shit nod to his amputated hand but I was too lazy to think of a better way to do that xD

Thank you for reading.  
Really.


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